On the evening of the 25th, my mother-in-law always says, "Wonder what next Christmas will bring."

Her mother used to say the same thing, and now I do, too.

Christmas night is a natural time to sit by a dying fire and reflect on where we've been and where we might go in the new months ahead...

Here's one change my neighbors and I will have to get used to in 2009.

After serving customers for 86 years, Eighth Avenue Market is closing its doors on Christmas Eve — just like Meg Ryan's little bookstore in "You've Got Mail."

Bill Spencer (owner, proprietor, butcher, shelf stocker, checker, sage, head, heart, soul, impresario and friend to generations of Avenues residents) died before Thanksgiving, and his family has decided the time is right for all of us to move on.

Which, of course, we'll do.

Reluctantly.

Eighth Ave. was unique — a carryover from the days when neighbors were all on a first-name basis with each other. When a customer could call and have groceries delivered.

When people put purchases on their accounts, then settled up at the end of the month.

It was a small market with maybe eight or nine aisles, loaded with both name brand items and Western Family generics.

All of the merchandise was pretty straight-forward: canned tomatoes, cake mixes, dairy, excellent meat.

Nothing too fancy or precious (think saffron threads).

But you could usually find what you needed, and if you didn't, Bill would do his level best to get it for you.

I confess I didn't always understand the store's quirky organizational scheme — why things you needed for baking (chocolate chips, nuts, sugar, flour, spices) were found scattered throughout the store, for instance.

But once I figured out where everything was, I could be in and out of Eighth Ave. in less time than it would take me to park my car and trudge to the entrance of Costco.

Anyway, I'll miss so many things about the store. The BEST meat counter ever.

The TV. The free phone for customers. The hand-lettered signs announcing the arrival of blueberries! Beets! Artichokes!

The vintage cardboard cutout of Diggum the Sugar Smacks frog hanging from the ceiling.

The penny candy. The Snelgrove's ice cream.

The neighbors filling their shopping carts on Saturday mornings.

The dictionary Bill's grandkids kept near the checkout stand to assist them in solving crossword puzzles.

The grandkids.

But most of all I'm going to miss Bill.

Who else will ask about my boys when I shop for my produce?

Or wonder if I've written a book yet or inquire about my parents' health or tell me how smart kids today are or say when someone passes away that "hell, they're lucky to be out of this mess"?

I'll miss the sound of his distinctive laugh.

I'll miss the sight of him in the aisles taking care of business from sunup to sundown, six days a week.

It's a cliche, but it's true:

They just don't make them like him or his store anymore.

E-mail: acannon@desnews.com