In the heart of Huntington, where the Erie Lackawanna railroad tracks once pulsed with the rhythm of small-town life, there stood a store that was more than a place to shop. The Erie Department Store was a landmark of connection, a hub where neighbors gathered, needs were met, and stories intertwined. At the center of it all was Louis George Zahm, a man whose quiet dedication, warmth, and steady service left an imprint on his family, his community, and everyone who crossed his path.

Louis was born on June 30, 1929, in Fort Wayne, the son of George Joseph and Solina Krause Zahm. When he was five, his family moved to the corner of Tipton and Oak streets in Huntington, where he would live for the rest of his life. He grew up a member of St. Mary Catholic Church, attended its grade school, and graduated from Huntington Catholic High School. He dreamed of becoming a doctor and enrolled at a university in St. Louis. But life had other plans.

During his freshman year, tragedy struck. His father, just 57, died unexpectedly following a stroke. Louis came home for Christmas break and never returned to campus. At just 18, he set aside his ambitions to help his mother run the Erie Department Store — a business his grandfather, Louis V. Zahm, had founded in 1896 with partner L.R. Fowerbaugh. From that moment on, the store became his calling, and service his way of life.

The Erie was legendary. With more than 40,000 items crammed into its compact space, customers could buy groceries, meat, hardware, clothing, even coal. Locals joked, “If the Erie doesn’t have it, you don’t need it.” And Louis knew where everything was. His eye for detail and devotion to his customers kept the shelves stocked and the aisles bustling — even if those aisles were so narrow that they became impassable the year he broke his leg and had to maneuver through them in a wheelchair.

Louis’ own life filled out alongside the store. On November 7, 1951, he married Kathryn Jane Annan, the love of his life. Together they had nine children, seven of whom lived to adulthood. Parenting came with “on-the-job training” for both — each had grown up as an only child — but together they built a household rich in responsibility, faith, and hard work. Their children remember chores at home and jobs at the Erie, riding their bikes to the store to weigh out nails and working behind the counter.

Duty to family extended to duty to country. In 1952, Louis was drafted into the Korean War, serving as a clerk with an Army Corps of Engineers unit. He rarely spoke of his service, except for a favorite story about rigging a makeshift water heater that caught fire and burned down the mess hall. “If my commanding officer hadn’t gone to bat for me, I’d still be paying for it,” he joked. When he returned home on leave, he arrived just as Kathryn emerged from the delivery room with their first child—only to depart again for service with the car keys still in his pocket.

Back in Huntington, Louis threw himself into work. Six days a week, from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., he kept the Erie humming, greeting customers by name, training young employees not just in stocking shelves but in patience and respect. For Theron Smith, who worked there in the 1960s, Louis’ lessons went beyond retail — they were lessons in how to treat people with dignity. To customers, the store was more than a marketplace; it was a place of belonging.

Louis’ life reached beyond the walls of the Erie. He guided his children through award-winning science fair projects, nurtured a love of history, and developed considerable skill as a photographer. His pictures, including an award-winning shot of the last Erie train to stop in Huntington, became part of the town’s historical record. He was active in the South Side Business Association, often throwing himself into its Heritage Days parade entries. He served as president of the Historical Review Board, sat on the Redevelopment Commission, volunteered as a church lector, and took part in the Knights of Columbus and VFW Post 2689. Later in life, he and Kathryn shared their cooking talents at the Pioneer Festival, delighting some audiences — and bribing grandchildren to smile through less popular creations.

Through it all, Louis remained grounded in what mattered most: faith, family, and service. His days were not marked by headlines or fame but by consistency, kindness, and care for his neighbors. He lived a life stitched into the everyday fabric of Huntington, a life that showed success is not measured in wealth or expansion but in sincerity and community ties.

Louis Zahm passed away on July 2, 1992, after a lifetime of service. His widow and children carried the store forward until its closure in 2003, ending 107 years of operation. Today, as shopping drifts to digital screens and anonymous deliveries, the story of Louis and the Erie Department Store endures as a reminder of a different kind of success — the kind built on trust, connection, and heart — as well as locating those odd-sized nuts and bolts that could not be found anywhere else on Earth.

In Huntington, Louis Zahm is remembered not just as a storekeeper, but as a neighbor, mentor, and friend. And for a town once held together by railroad tracks and a little store on Market Street, his legacy remains a guiding thread.