Something happened recently that reminded me, strongly, of why I have always supported locally-owned businesses. I grew up in a rural town where we had a Sears, J.C. Penney, and a Belk.
Every other business in town was owned by local folks. I knew most of them. As a penniless college student, I drooled over clothes I couldn’t afford at the fantastic dress stores.
Sometimes, an owner would allow me to put a dress on layaway.
These were people by whom I sat on a church pew, ran into in the cereal aisle of the grocery store, or saw at high school football games. They cared about me and what they sold because they knew that was key to growing the business.
Oh, the many wonderful stories I can tell.
After college, I often counted pennies to make a mortgage payment. I sometimes had to reach into my savings account, built up by tax refunds, to buy tires. I traded with the family-owned Harrison Tire, where Mike, Jim, and Jimmy took such good care of me.
“Miss Ronda,” one would say. “You can get another 5,000 miles from those tires. Come back then.”
They never took advantage of me or tried to sell me unnecessary items. Today, we still do all our business there, where they also change the oil.
When Tink goes to pay, they wave him away.
“Get out of here. We’ll send you a bill.”
Always with a smile and a wink.
I love independent drugstores. I can call out to Wauka Mountain Pharmacy and ask to speak to Mary, Sweta, or Meredith, who are friends of mine. When I have a new book come out, they always advertise it on their billboard on a major highway.
Tink, raised in Connecticut with 30 years in California, is amazed by that.
“Only in a small town. I love it.”
Our bank is primarily local. It was bought by a regional company several years ago. If you call the local number, it reroutes to the big bank.
However, because I have banked with them for so many years, I have my personal banker’s cell number. If I can’t get her, I can call the president’s direct line or his cell phone.
Hometown businesses are to be loved.
When I built the house that Tink and I live in, 18 years ago, everyone advised me to use gas heat because it’s warmer.
We live so far out in the country that natural gas lines don’t run here, so I got a propane tank and buried it. For all these years, I have used the same propane company that two wonderful, honorable men owned. Gary, my delivery guy, and I became friendly acquaintances, always chatting when he came by.
About three years ago, he told me he had cancer and explained its gravity.
“Well,” I said, “let’s just pray about that right now.” There, on our back porch, we prayed — then prayed every time he came by after that. He’s still going strong.
In the coldest part of January, we ran out of propane. I had just checked it a week before and had 25 percent left.
I had never run out of propane before, so what happened is a mystery.
The two kind men who owned the propane company sold their business to a company in Boston. When I called to ask for a delivery, an unkind woman spoke harshly to me and told me it would be 10 days before they would deliver.
I had the flu, and it was 45 degrees in the house.
I started calling until I found a helpful friend who asked, “Do you know Lisa at the local office?”
“Yes. She’s helped me for years.”
He sent me her direct line, and precious Lisa said, “I’m happy to help you. I’ve already sent the trucks out today, but you’ll have delivery tomorrow.”
Boston didn’t care about me. But my hometown friends did.
Ronda Rich is the bestselling author of Sapelo Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.