Columnist Ruthe Deskin: Recalling the markets of yesterday

Ruthe Deskin

Thursday, Oct. 14, 1999 | 9:30 a.m.

Ruthe Deskin is assistant to the publisher. Her column appears Thursdays. Reach her at deskin@vegas.com.

Not that Sun Editor Brian Greenspun is anywhere near being called a senior, but in his recent column regarding the controversy surrounding the opening of a Wal-Mart super-supermarket he delved back into Las Vegas history, mentioning Johnny's market, a mom-and-pop operation on the edge of town.

Most of us who lived in the Crestwood and Huntridge areas traded with Johnny. Like Brian, I remember when the big supermarkets began to proliferate and Johnny's fate was sealed. Small businesses cannot compete with the huge conglomerates. Johnny Nassar died of a heart attack and many of us felt the demise of his market attributed to his death. He was just a young man. An incident I remember witnessing at Johnny's would never in the world be repeated at any of our huge modern markets.

We were in line at the check-out counter chatting with Mrs. Johnny Nassar, who doubled as grocery clerk, cashier and bookkeeper. A rather derelict fellow -- unshaven and wearing clean but tattered clothing -- laid a loaf of bread on the counter and carefully counted out change to cover the cost. He kept his arm close to his body, and for good reason: He was hiding a bottle of wine in an inside jacket pocket.

As he walked out the door one of the customers called out, "Johnny, that guy stole a bottle of wine. Should I stop him?" Johnny told us that the man lived in an old shack nearby. He would come by the store occasionally and buy a can of beans, a bottle of milk, or a loaf of bread. He always paid in small coins, and he always tucked a bottle of wine in his jacket, where, he presumed, no one could detect the theft. "He is a regular customer," Johnny said with a grin, "and we value our customers."

Can you imagine something like that happening in one of our modern supermarkets?

More memories come from former hotel manager and author Dick Taylor, who, like most of us getting along in years, reads the obits in the daily newspaper.

Taylor sent a note in which he wrote, "Couldn't help but feel nostalgic when I spotted the obituary of Steve Kostelac." So many names once recognized by all, now relatively unknown. Taylor went on to recall Joe Julian, Bill Free, Al Levy and his own peer group of hotel managers, Archie Loveland, Dick Chappel, Tony DeCarlo and Bob Cannon.

It's easy to relate to Taylor's thoughts when he writes, "I'm starting to feel lonely. I'm the relic of the past. Funny, I remember them like it was yesterday -- and a different world."

All of us who have added a wrinkle here and there understand the shock of seeing names of old friends and acquaintances in the obituary columns -- especially when the announcement is terse and lacking any personal details of the individual, as was the case with Steve Kostelac, a 55-year resident of Las Vegas and at one time one of our best-known citizens.

My best recollection of Kostelac was after the Sun plant burned to the ground and he was awarded the contract to clean it up. He cried with the rest of us as we watched our newspaper become a pile of ashes, and he did what he could to help the Sun rebuild, always claiming it was his favorite newspaper.

So much for memories. We all have them to give us joy as the years go by.