Welkommen Wagon
I notice lately the bank I’ve been going to the last few years started saying hello. This is possibly good news, then again, maybe not. The last time the folks of Stanwoodopolis suddenly knew my name was at the now defunct Thrifty Foods, my hometown grocery store of, oh, 25 years or so. The first 25 years they never even said hello before they started ringing me up. I was as anonymous as any unwanted immigrant to them.
Then the first big chain grocery rolled in. Lower prices, shiny new store, more groceries, better options. The hometown store looked like a bowling alley for zombies, about 5 of us prowling the aisles in search of stray items left over in their slow but continual downsizing. The newspaper began running editorials to Shop Local. Support our local biznesses. The usual ballyhoo boo hoo.
Gimme a break. I’ve lived in plenty of small towns from sea to shining sea. Almost all of them fear the Newcomer as the vanguard for Genghis’s hordes. But some of them warm up a little after a year or so. Oh, they’re not going to invite you to Sunday dinner, but the librarian might engage you in a lively discussion on the book you check out, or the hardware guy might wonder what your 2×6’s are going to be used for, or the drugstore clerk might comment on the weather. 30 years in this Welkommen burg and nothing as radical as that. Not so much as a hello, how are you today?
Until about a month before Thrifty Food Store closed the doors …. Then, much to my amazement, it was hello, it was Hi, Skeeter, did you find everything you were looking for? They knew my name! They’d known it all along, of course, but now with the Wolf breathing down their neck, their jobs about to end suddenly, they tried a belated stab at hometown friendliness, one last gasp, throw away the pride.
Maybe a week prior to Armaggedon, Stanwoodopolis will discover a service ethic, manners, a welcoming demeanor. You know, just before WalMart opens….
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