“This ain’t the end of the world, but you can see it from here,” so reads the sign above the door at Arby’s Store in Wenona. The store is almost at the end of the Deal Island Road, and beyond, where the Chesapeake Bay and sky meet, is the end of the world.

Arby’s is a landmark that percolates with breaking news, gossip, tales of taboo romance, broken marriages, indiscretions, politics — all mixed in with crab, oyster and fish reports.

There is no such thing as secrets here. What is discussed here can be so delicious it should be featured on the menu, tucked in between crab bites and single-fried oysters.

And yes, between store owners and operators Arby and Debbie Holland, and their patrons, they know everything about everybody, all the time. Nothing, but nothing, gets by them, day or night.

It is the place writers Hemingway and Steinbeck would have loved to call their own. It is filled to the rafters with salt-of-of-the earth personalities, characters, gospel truths and outright lies. It’s a place where "almost saints" and sinners rub elbows, where romance is found, and lost in a single evening of chilled suds and cry in your beer honky tonk country classics.

This is Arby’s, a “bar and restaurant” at the end of the waterman’s rainbow.

A waterfront country store

Their two-room store, with its bar and restaurant on one side and country store on the other, offers waterman-related supplies, soft drinks, ice cream and pastries. An Eastern Shore icon, it’s patronized by rugged watermen with caps, worn jeans and once-white knee boots, islanders, tourists from across the Shore, and hunters and motorcycle groups from all over Delmarva.

Now, after almost 39 years of business, the Hollands have put their store up for sale. Closing day is April 30. It is on the market for $1.4 million, a whole lot of oysters, but the potential for the site is attractive, and if a two-story structure was built, Arby speculated, the views would be spectacular for restaurant patrons.

There may be an additional incentive.

“He’s even tellin’ people when he sells the store I go with it,” Debby said.

“I’ll leave her as part of the inventory,” he added.

“I was tellin’ people I was puttin’ the place on the market ‘cause I was downsizing. Am planning to sell the home, move the kids out. I'm looking for a one-bedroom home. Don't need a livin’ room ‘cause I can watch TV from my bed. I can’t put in a sofa with one of them damn pull-out beds ‘cause the next thing you know one of the kids will move back in. Don’t need a kitchen 'cause Debbie don't cook. And I don't want to retire and cut grass for the rest of my life. Just need a yard big enough for my house and room for to pull my pickup up to it. I’ve told a lot of people this and they say ‘What does Debbie think of your plan?’  I say, ‘Didn’t you hear how I started this story? I’m lookin’ to downsize.’ ”

Truth is, neither wants to leave Deal Island.

“We are going to get a place down here to live. We aren't leaving the island,” he said.

Arby’s, not to be confused with the roast beef sandwich fast-food chain, is the last of three legendary landmarks here. Shirley’s Shack, a former crab shanty just across the harbor from the store, was the subject of thousands of photos and paintings over the years. It was torn down several years ago. Another was Albert Brown’s Sail Loft just a few yards down the road from the store. Several generations of the Brown family worked here in what was the only sail-making building in Somerset County. It disappeared years ago. Only Arby’s remains.

The Hollands and their store has been featured on TV, radio, magazines and newspapers over the years. They were in the news when they hit a bit of luck years ago.

After they bought the business from Arby’s father in 1985, their next milestone was in 1989 when Debby “hit” the $30,000 Maryland scratch off jackpot. That money funded the addition of a second room to become the bar and restaurant. That generated a lot more store traffic.

Over the decades thousands of people have met or at least heard of Arby and Debby.

She has a voice so clear, so powerful, it could warn ships on the bay of navigational hazards.

Witty, she bubbles with humor and laughter, and stories delivered with a voice that is a tsunami of sound waves  that’s loud, loud and louder.

“People have told me they can hear her in Marion Station, and when the wind’s right, and blowin’ across the water, maybe they can hear her in Crisfield. Rumbley has no problem at all hearing her,” her husband said.

“Everybody loves me the way I am,” she said. She’s right, everybody does love her, a down-to-earth, genuine hardworking, old- school Eastern Shore lady who speaks her mind.

“People can hear Debby, I’m more soft spoken,” he said.

Born and raised in Salisbury, she does have a bit of an elusive accent. Where’s it from? Hold onto your bar stool — when Debby came to live in Wenona almost 40 years ago, locals thought she was from North Carolina. Yet no one asked to see her visa.

“Ever since then we’ve been wantin’ to send her at least as far as North Carolina,” Arby said.

Marriage banter

Tidbits of their marital trials and tribulations are legendary with the public. Both revel in humor and both ‘tell it like it is,” or close enough.

She blushes a bit as Arby, on a roll, delivers quips about the two. Debby has heard them all, but to the first-time listener they sparkle and shine with wit, originality and innuendo.

“She took ‘advantage’ of me when we met,” Arby explained with a straight face.

“I found her pole dancing at the old Allenwood Bar in Salisbury. When I first met her you should have seen the dancin’ around me she done. Took advantage of me from the start,” he said.

“No, no, no, don’t go listenin’ to him,” she interrupted with laughter. “God Almighty. He’s so full of it.”

In July they will have been married 37 years.

They lived in sin four years prior to Arby finally heeding the pleading of a local pastor.

“Preacher Sonny Benton used to come in and tell me, ‘Arby, make an honest woman out of her.’ (He) kept doin’ it and doin’ it until I finally give in. And he married us. And I’ve still not forgiven him,’ he said, smiling.” Our anniversary is the day before my birthday, so every year I blame her for aging me. But ain't nobody mistakin’ her for my daughter.”

 “If I’d been smart, I stayed livin’ in sin,” she said with infectious laughter. “I tell you what, I will never get married again, never, ever, ever, ever.”

“Her mom knew I was a keeper,’ he said.

“I think mom just wanted to get rid of me,” Debby said. “Living in sin was the best part of the relationship,” Arby explained. “Then I could send her back up the road, now I can’t get clear of her.”

“Yep, now I’m here till he dies,” she interjected with satisfaction while laughing.

There may have been a few youthful, manly indiscretions on his part. While raising kids and operating a store Debby discovered that her husband, then a truck driver, was “hitting the casino in Dover” and patronizing the “girlie bars in Smyrna.”

  He stopped in Smyrna, he confessed, to quench his thirst with their cold drinks.

“Do you know how I found out he was goin’ to the girlie bars? From his ex-wife,” Debbie said. “She had a friend that was in there and saw him.”

“She ratted me out,” Arby said.

While it did reflect poorly on his country church upbringing, he did offer a creative explanation. An explanation so original and smooth, it begged for a standing ovation.

“She’d be on my mind so much the only thing to do was stop there for a few minutes to hold me over till I got back to ‘er.”

It was an excuse so polished, so loving, so romantic, angels either wept or laughed in unison.

“Whenever she sees women cozying up to me here she comes over and tells them to take me with them when they leave,” Arby said.

“I’ve treated her like a queen,” he stressed. It says ‘till death do us part,’ and I don’t know why I haven’t killed her already.”

He is generous with her to a fault, he said. “I tell people, if I hit that big power ball lottery, I’m going to give Debby a million dollars. People ask me, ‘That’s all you're goin’ to give her, one million?’  I tell them ‘It will take her first million to find me for her next million.’ ”

He is, Arby said, the ideal husband.

“Whenever we have a disagreement, I tell her, if you want to know how I've held this place together, look at the sign. It says ‘Arby’s.’ ”

“ It’s Arby’s store,’  I hear that all the time from Mr. Holland,” she commented.

No, it isn't the soft drinks, beer, french fries or pool table that attracts folks. Arby, Debby and the local watermen are the drawing cards here.

Some regulars come with nicknames, like “Rooster,” “Spriggs,” “Magic,” “Jersey Mike,” “Gunk,” (junior and senior, better known as “Big Gunk” and “Little Gunk”) and “’Mater,” “Bodine,” “Uncle Ting,” “Dr. Phil,” “Green Giant or Teeny.” “Bones” was the nickname of Arby’s late brother, Gary.

Listening to the Hollands roll off nicknames was Mark “No Foolin’” Strough, a come-here with a nickname Arby “put on him,' “because he uses the term multiple times in conversation.

“I have two nicknames for the women that come in here,” Arby said, ‘Honey and Baby.’”

If it’s political correctness you’re after, it doesn't exist down here. And people love it. If only Arby’s was just a bit closer to Mar-a-Lago, Trump would pop in for a beer.

With his head just clearing the doorway height, in walked Robert Schilling. At 7-foot 1-inch tall, and looking four inches taller than that with boots and an abundance of tousled hair, Arby calls him “Stretch” or “Tree.” If a man ever wanted to know what it felt to be short, all he’d have to do is stand close to the congenial waterman. Arby, whom his father called “Shorty,” was duly impressed, looked up to Schilling as though he could bring in an FM radio signal. He looks every inch a waterman, but when he speaks, words leaving his lips are spoken with a distinctive radio-announcer’s quality voice. Who knew?

Sure enough, for “outsiders” to meet interesting and unique people, and make new friends, Arby’s has long been ground zero on the island.

The Hollands have met thousands of people over almost four decades and many developed into friendships. “People plan their vacations to accommodate visits here. We have so many people come back year after year. My motorcycle people come to see me,” she said. They bring not only friendship but cash, and their loyalty to the store has touched her heart.

There will be much to miss, but Debby can envision getting back to those sweet memories of days so long ago when she retired to the house deck and dipped her hand into the ice chest for refreshments on those hot summer days. “I’m goin' to have room to breathe. I’m gonna be out on my deck, sunnin’,” she said. Now she’s looking forward to the endless joys of babysitting for her daughter.

Oh, the bliss ahead for her with Arby at home, maybe 24/7.

“Great day, my Lordy. Holy Moly. He’s a couch potato. He’s used to us women doin’ everything, that’s how the men are down here,” the better half said.

Looking ahead, to avoid a future of having him sit around the house all day, she's encouraging him to find a job as soon as the store closes.

“The only thing I can do anymore,” he said with a straight face while slowly nodding his head, “is stud service,” which drew laughter from his wife and listeners. “I can take care of lonely hearts,’ he volunteered,

“If it keeps him out of the house, go for it,” Debby said, encouraging his next career move.

As for Arby, the tears could come fast and furious if he pondered the thought of sad emotions that awaits them, so he elects not to think about it.

“It’s been on me for a lot of years, wonderin’ how the end was going to affect people. Over the years I’ve tried to help a lot of people here. There’s more to havin' a country store than just runnin’ it. I’ve already had my share of cryin’ about closin'. This has been a commitment here and it’s really been my life. All things,” Arby said, “must eventually come to an end.”

It all comes and goes with the tides of life.

Debby said it was time for a change.

“Imagine, workin’ seven days a week for 39 years and taking one vacation. Yes, I'm going to miss it but, you know, throughout these 38 years there’s a lot of life I’ve missed,” she said.

Arby chimed in with comforting words to sooth her loss.

“If you feel like you've missed your honeymoon, I can do it all over again for you,” he offered.

They discovered long ago that absence does make the heart grow fonder and a marriage work. They live in shifts. Arby’s day begins at  4:30 a.m. when he opens for the “morning people.” A friend comes in to fix breakfast sandwiches at 4 a.m.

Debby’s shift is 8 a.m. until 4 p.m.

“I used to be night shift. I’d stay late and close the bar down but no more. I come in here, do my hours, and go home.”

Arby returns at 4 p.m. and stays until closing, about 9 p.m.

Suddenly, 39 years later

Year after year, the routine continued. Seven days a week, and suddenly 39 years passed, taking with it the best years of their lives.

 No, she said, she didn’t want to be a nurse, or school teacher or secretary growing up. It was her “calling,” she said, to spend almost every day of her life for the past 38-plus years at Wenona’s only store.

During the day Arby runs business errands and Debby mans the store. Sometimes it weeks before she even gets off the island.

In just days, they will find themselves with one foot in the past, one in the future.

Closing marks the end of an era, Debby said, and also marks the passing of much of their lives as they head toward the twilight years, the golden years.

Suddenly life is all about preparing for “the end.”

Hopefully all perishable inventory will be gone by April 30. Vendors have been informed to get their equipment.

“One thing that will stay,” Arby said, “is the coffee pot.”

“Oh no, I’m calling the coffee people to come get their coffee pot,” Debby promptly informed her husband.

“No they ain’t. They’re leavin’ me that for my coffee. Got to have two cups in the morning.”

“No, I’m gettin’ you a coffee pot for the house.”“No, I still have to walk over here,” he “mansplained” to her. “Well, you know who’s gonna win on this one, don’t ya?”

“This is why I like him over to the house and me here, and vice versa,” Debby said.

Coffee pot stay or go, the real stress point for everybody is closing night.

Debby said that while many act like April 30 will be just another day, and have no other event to compare it to in their lives, it’s going to hit some hard.

“Jacob Stuve, he busted out cryin’ when I told it we were sellin’,” she said. “He was a New Yorker, down here now learnin’ Eastern Shore ways.”

It’s just days now to party night, but some know, deep down inside, this is akin to a funeral.

Many of those coming in are not old enough to remember a time when Arby’s wasn’t here. But one second after midnight, April 30th, the locked doors will forever end a way of life for islanders. It will be a watershed event, because, outside of the legendary Gordon’s in Crisfield, this is a place unlike any other in Somerset County.

Make no mistake, the end of Arby’s is an end of a time that will never be again. It doesn't seem conceivable that an old-time Eastern Shore way of life will pass away at the stroke of midnight.

“They’re not goin' to have anything else down here. The next place to get stuff is Princess Anne, 13 miles away. You'd be surprised of the ones who come down here to get their checks cashed, like we are the Bank of We-known-ah,” Debby mused.

Truth is, the island will also be “dry” all the way to Princess Anne, as the bar offered the only beer and wine refreshments in the area.

Dustin Webster, 38, said there’s never been a day in his life that there hasn't been an Arby’s.

“I guess you could say I knew this place before I was born. My mom and mom’s parents came to the store,” he said.

“I grew up in this store. I’ve never known a time when it wasn't here, but it looks like I’m goin' to find out, uh? It ain’t just me. People down here are goin' to feel this, too. There won’t be any place left. Won’t be able to get nothin’.  We know the coming impact of it. Damn right we know, only place we got. It’s not going to feel right”.

Proud to be an islander, his entire abdomen is covered with a tattoo with a wide “Devil’s Island” banner from one hip to the other. Devil’s Island is believed to have been the original name for Deal Island.

Like a painting, the locals bring unique and one-of-a-kind colors, shades and hues to the rainbow that is life.

Every conceivable personality has passed through these doors, good and bad, rich and poor, gifted and those struggling with intellectual shortcomings.

Bring all the brilliant and subdued colors together, and it becomes a painting of life that once was Arby’s.

It will all soon dissipate like a lifting fog.

“I can’t help it, we're done. It’s a done deal. We’re at the end of the road,” Debby said.