Why I Patronize Barkansas

Two weeks ago I went to Barkansas, the tiny boutique pet store near my home.  I buy Blue Buffalo dog food there: buy nine sacks, get the tenth one free.   The owner’s little old Jack Russell comes up to sniff a greeting.  Sometimes I take my dog, Callie, with me, and she shows off by shaking hands with the owner.  I would like to teach her to shake hands with the dog, but I haven’t figured out how to do that yet.

I told the owner, “I need a better seatbelt for my dog.  She keeps escaping from her harness.”

The owner took a couple of different dog seatbelts to my car and showed me how to use them.  I selected one.  “Bring it back if you decide it doesn’t work like you want it to, or if you don’t like it,” she said.  It works.  I like it. 

Last week, I went to the store.  “I have a brand new Subaru, and I’m going on a trip next week,” I said.   “I don’t want my dog’s toenails poking holes in the seat leather, and I don’t want this car covered in her hair like my old one was.  I also need a way to keep her dog bed from falling off the seat into the floor when I come to a stop.  Can you help me?”

She said, “I have an idea.  I haven’t tried these seat covers yet, but I’ve seen them in a catalog.”  She found the catalog and the seat covers and explained the differences between the two models to me.

“Order this one for me,” I said, pointing.

Three days later, the seat cover arrived.  I drove to the pet store in my older car to pick it up.  The owner said, “Don’t you want to come back in your new car so I can help you install it?  Then you can see whether or not you want it.  Of course, if you try it on your trip and you don’t like it, you can always bring it back.”

I said, “Service like you give me is one reason I avoid Big Box Store.” 

She thanked me and then said, “We started this boutique pet store to carry high quality pet supplies and to offer outstanding service.  A customer came in yesterday and told me that Big Box Store now carries high quality dog food that costs less than ours.  The customer said that Big Box Store’s new brand didn’t have soy, wheat, or BHA. I asked her, ‘Would you even know what BHA was if I hadn’t taught you?’”

The customer admitted that she would not.  The owner then told the customer, “I can’t stay in business when you come in and count on me to educate you about products and use my expertise to solve problems, then go to Big Box Store to purchase the items I taught you about.”

Indeed, she cannot.  I think she’s the victim of intellectual theft.  The ersatz customer stole knowledge from the small business owner, but did not buy from her.  If the customer wanted to save a little money by buying from the Big Box Store, she should have asked their employees to take the time to educate her about dog food.  She should have asked them to explain what the ingredients were, and how each affected her dog.  Wheat? Soy? BHA?   Right.  Like that would have happened.

Locally-owned, Mom-n-Pop businesses are the backbone of American life.  Thanks Big Box Store, but I’ll keep parking my Subaru in front of Barkansas Pet Supply.

Why I Shop at My Little Local Hardware Store

Last week, the darling young man who does odd jobs for me needed $50 worth of lumber to repair the fascia that the squirrels were busily gnawing through on my house.  He said, “I’ll get the lumber from Big Box Chain Store.   That’ll save you 15-20% over the little local hardware store.”

I smiled and sensed a teachable moment.  I said, “I want the little local hardware store to stay in business.  If everyone goes to the big box chain store, my little hardware store will go broke.  Having it here enriches my life and my community.  Spending 15 or 20% more to buy from a locally-owned store and make my community strong is worth the investment to me.”

He tilted his head.  “I never thought about it that way,” he said.

He went to my little hardware store and bought the lumber.  I supported my community.

A few days later, he returned to my little hardware store with the lid from an old can of paint we needed to match my soffit and fascia.  He asked the paint manager to match it.  The paint manager said, “This paint didn’t come from us.  We could try to match it, but you can see on the can that it was purchased from the paint store down the road.  They will have the exact formula you need in their records. You really ought to go there.” 

That’s social responsibility on the part of my little hardware store paint manager.  He knew that another store could meet my needs better than he could, so he acted with selfless honesty to serve his customer.  I think my young handyman learned a lesson about supporting local small businesses from that experience.

But my story doesn’t end there.

Last week, my husband tried to fix a table lamp in our library.  The lamp had stopped working.  He tried a new bulb.  Nope.  He decided he would disassemble the lamp.  He couldn’t get it apart, which is just as well because he wouldn’t have been able to put it back together. 

I knew the lamp needed a new lamp kit.  I knew I could install a lamp kit; I’d seen my dad do it, and because I am a woman, I will read directions when needed.  But I couldn’t take the lamp apart because I didn’t have the strength in my hands to unscrew the nut from the lamp nipple.  My husband brought me all the wrenches he had, but we couldn’t make any of them work.

I said, “I can’t do this now, but we can go to the hardware store tomorrow, and I can get someone there to help me unscrew it and sell me a lamp kit to fix it.”

No dice.  Because my husband is not well, he was nervous and obsessing on the lamp.  He needed the lamp fixed immediately.  Part of my responsibility in taking care of him is eliminating as much stress from his life as possible, so I grabbed the lamp and said, “Come on, Kiddo.  We’ll go to the little hardware store now.”

Since it was a Sunday afternoon, we were the only customers.  The ONLY customers.  Everyone else was at the big box store saving their 15 or 20%.

The two cashiers at my little hardware store were standing at their assigned posts.  I handed the first cashier my lamp.  “Here,” I said.  “I don’t have the strength in my hands to unscrew this.  Can you help me?  And then sell me a lamp kit so I can go home and figure out how to fix it?”

The cashier unscrewed the nut from the nipple.  Then, since not one other customer had come in, he went and got a lamp kit off the shelf, took it out of the package, and fixed my lamp.  I grabbed a new light bulb and we tested the lamp. On.  Off.  On.  Off.  Yep.  Good as new. 

I paid for the lamp kit and the light bulb.  Then I slipped my new friend a few dollars.  “To take your sweetie out for a hamburger,” I said.

He smiled. “Thanks,” he said.  “I will.”

Perhaps my local businesses cost a little more than the big box stores do, but they make my life much richer.  The people.  You know?  They will send me to the local paint store if that would be better for me.  They will help me fix my lamps.  I will help them take their sweeties out for a burger.  I will always support my small local businesses.  I wish everybody would.

Why I Shop Locally

When I was in junior high school, I lived in a town of twenty thousand people.  Our town was a hundred miles from two large cities.  All my friends’ families went to those cities for back-to-school shopping and Christmas shopping.  Ours was the only family I knew who did not go to the cities to shop.  The only family.

I had been aware for several years that we were the outliers who didn’t make this twice-yearly pilgrimage for gold, frankincense and myrrh (or pleated skirts, knee sox, and penny loafers), but little kids don’t question the status quo.  However, when I hit junior high, I wanted to be able to talk about our back-to-school shopping trip, our Christmas shopping trip.  (Not that I cared about clothes or fashion; I didn’t.  I simply wanted to be able to join in the conversation.)

When I asked my parents at dinner one night in early December why we couldn’t go to Lubbock or Amarillo to Christmas shop, my dad put down his fork and looked at me, his eyes gentle.  “Honey,” he said, “I’m a lawyer.  My clients are the people in this town.  They put the food on this table.  The cabbage on your fork, the corned beef on your plate, and the pie on the counter are going in your belly tonight because of the people who live in this town.  They help me feed my family because they hire me as their lawyer instead of hiring a lawyer from out of town.  I will help them feed their families by buying our goods and services from them.”

He resumed eating, as did I, but I knew he had more to say.  After a few bites, he started talking again.  “You see,” he said, “Expecting our neighbors and friends to support our family by hiring me would be unfair if we took the money they paid us and spent it out of town to help strangers feed their families instead of reciprocating.  It’s a matter of fairness, of being just.”

Then he approached the matter from a different angle.  “Also,” he said, “I want to pay the city sales tax to support this town, not another town.  I want to support our police and fire protection I want to help keep our streetlights lit and our stoplights working.  I want to help pay the bonds that build our schools. The money for those services for our city comes in part from sales tax.  If we don’t buy locally, we’re not supporting our town. We’re not paying for the services we use.”

He reached for his coffee, sipped a little, and sat down the cup.  “Do you understand?” he asked.

I nodded.

Then my mother added her perspective.  She said, “When we get sick or someone in our family dies, who do you think will sit at our bedside?  Who will pray for us?  Who will bring us a casserole to eat?  The people in this town, or the people in the city?”

“The people here,” I said, folding my napkin and leaning back in my chair.

“That’s right,” said my mom, “And those are the people we want to support, not the strangers in the city.”

That, then, is why I shop locally.