Time in a Bottle

When Kennecott Copper ceased operations in White Pine County, Nev., more than 20 years ago, dozens of merchants in the former smelter town of McGill went out of business. But when Elsa Culbert locked the doors of McGill’s drugstore, she left behind more than a shuttered storefront—she left a fully stocked store complete with soda fountain, sundry health and beauty potions, seasonal window displays, greeting cards, and business and prescription records dating to 1915. For a long time it all lay gathering dust, like the treasure of Tutankhamen.

“It was like the rest of the buildings in town—you couldn’t see in the windows,” says Daniel Braddock, who moved to McGill (pop. 1,054) from California in 1995. Braddock, like many of his retiree neighbors, was drawn to McGill in part by the high desert air. And though Braddock never met Jerry Culbert, what the former owner of the town drugstore left behind has come to play a part in his life.

“He was sort of a central figure in the town that everybody knew,” Richard Goddard says of Culbert. “No matter what social class you came from, everybody sooner or later went to the pharmacy and knew the pharmacist.”

Goddard, who holds a doctorate in anthropology with a focus on historical archeology, was engaged in a study of McGill when he met Jerry Culbert’s widow, Elsa. For decades Elsa had managed the front part of the store and was deeply attached to the place. And like her husband, she was something of a pack rat. Items that didn’t sell were stashed away in a back room; business records, including copies of every prescription filled since 1915, were packed in cigar boxes and filed away.

Following Elsa’s death in 1994, the deed to the drugstore passed into the hands of her sons, Dan and Mike, who—at Goddard’s urging—signed it over to the White Pine Public Museum. With help from local volunteers, Goddard set about cataloging more than 30,000 items in stock. The team approached the process like the archeological dig that it was, carefully noting the location of every artifact they uncovered.

Among that army of archeologists was Braddock, who, after Goddard moved to Twin Falls, Idaho, became curator and caretaker of what today is billed as the McGill Historical Drug Co.

“When I first got involved in the store,” Braddock says, “the first thing Dick did was open up the safe. He pointed at this jar and says, ‘Don’t touch that! It’s an explosive; it’s picric acid that has crystalized.’”

With help from a bomb disposal squad from nearby Tooele Army Depot, the volatile acid was disposed of. As other hazardous materials are unearthed, they’re turned over to the Nevada state pharmacy inspector—who dutifully returns the empty jars and bottles for reshelving.

Except for items locked behind glass in display cases, museum goers are welcome to handle the merchandise. If, say, a jar of Dippity-Do is misplaced, Braddock can find where it’s supposed to go by consulting his inventory catalog. To date, only a single tube of lipstick has turned up missing; Braddock considers it a small loss considering how many people have passed through the store.

“Last year we had visitors from nine foreign countries and 35 states,” Braddock says. “And I think I learn something from everybody that comes in here, whether they grew up in this town or in a town similar to McGill. They relate their stories. The older generation, it gives ’em a chance to remember what they had—and when I say older generation, I’m not talking about people in their 80s. I’m talking about people 35 to 50.”

“In addition to being a little time capsule of the past,” Goddard says, “it’s also an extremely important research facility. A facility like the McGill Drugstore is of inestimable value to medical anthropologists who would like to study how medical practices have changed in terms of kinds of medicines and how they’re prescribed and so on—how that has changed through the years.”

Admission to McGill’s Historic Drug Co. is free, although donations are accepted. Caretaker Braddock doesn’t draw a salary but will gladly draw you a soda and help paint a picture of life as it was lived in small-town America, not so very long ago.

Richard Menzies is a freelance writer and photographer who lives in Salt Lake City.

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