I walk into the One Stop Grocery in Cross Anchor (now permanently closed), where I am greeted by the aroma of Crock-Pot barbeque. Adela Robinson is behind the counter, and Molly Irby is sweeping up with a corn broom.
“It was founded by two retired sailors,” Robinson says. “They split apart. One came here. The other guy went down to Cross Keys.” She tells me she wishes she knew more, but the Spartanburg Herald-Journal ran an article a few years back about it. I should look that up.
Before I leave in search of the article, though, Robinson and Irby spend 30 minutes telling me all about Cross Anchor. Like many of the people I meet, they reminisce on the town’s better days.
“This town had a bank. It had a doctor’s office. It had a drug store. It had a mercantile,” Robinson says. “But the interstate redirected traffic and killed the town.”
In the article I find, the Herald-Journal history columnist Michael Leonard notes that “one day, coming upon a crossroads, the captain found the countryside fair, and to his liking. At the spot where the roads crossed, he stopped, lowered his anchors, and made his camp.”
“It was founded by two retired sailors,” Robinson says. “They split apart. One came here. The other guy went down to Cross Keys.” She tells me she wishes she knew more, but the Spartanburg Herald-Journal ran an article a few years back about it. I should look that up.
Before I leave in search of the article, though, Robinson and Irby spend 30 minutes telling me all about Cross Anchor. Like many of the people I meet, they reminisce on the town’s better days.
“This town had a bank. It had a doctor’s office. It had a drug store. It had a mercantile,” Robinson says. “But the interstate redirected traffic and killed the town.”
In the article I find, the Herald-Journal history columnist Michael Leonard notes that “one day, coming upon a crossroads, the captain found the countryside fair, and to his liking. At the spot where the roads crossed, he stopped, lowered his anchors, and made his camp.”
