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Illustration by Drew Shannon
I grew up in and around a department store – Sharp’s department store on Front Street in Campbellford, Ont. This was a family run business where customers were often greeted by name and some asked to be served by my maternal grandmother, Mrs. Sharp. Others patrons were embraced, tolerated and welcomed the various family members who “worked” there occasionally. I was one of those. I learned the difference between nylon and metal zippers, which fabrics to cut and those that needed to be torn, how to sort patterns and match colours of embroidery floss. I also learned something much more important – the place of a family business in the community.
Mrs. Sharp knew her customers. She knew of the rumours of domestic violence, of women who had little access to resources other than “egg money” to buy essentials for themselves, of families struggling to care for sons who suffered from what was then called “shell shock,” of unplanned pregnancies and the need for the discreet purchase of yard goods, patterns and elastic to help manage small-town gossip. End of the bolt fabrics and discarded patterns made their way into the hands of mothers whose children needed clothes for the start of the school year. Widows who did not have cash for undergarments bought “on-time,” sometimes in tears – “I hate to ask, it has been so hard since Charlie died, you know I am good for it, thank you. God bless you.”
When my partner and I were young parents, we were also university students. Like many young families, we worked with limited resources. Budgets were tight, but we saved to make space for occasional splurges. Inflation was over 11 per cent and interest rates above 18 per cent. We were the beneficiaries of the kindness of local merchants – ones who understood that treating every customer the same way did not mean that they were treated equally. The local fishmonger showed incredible thoughtfulness. They supplied lobster and crab to steak houses, immaculate scallops to a French restaurant and imported spectacular fin fish from Europe. Mussels however were downright inexpensive and our two year old developed a passion for them normally reserved for ice cream and chocolate cake. So, it was to the fishmongers we went – repeatedly. Without fail when the mussels were weighed and the price sticker printed out and slapped on the bag the scoop went back into the tank – “Just a few extra to make up for the ones that don’t open.”
On another visit, mussels in hand, a staff member who recognized us asked if we had seen the Scottish salmon that had come in that morning. “Looks beautiful,” I said, “just the mussels, thanks.” He asked if I could make use of some tails. “The restaurant only wants the best steaks and I really don’t have much of a market for these.” Two tails went into the bag. No charge. “Mussels for the little guy and a treat for you and your wife. On the house.”
When my wife was expecting our second child there was a deep craving for a local restaurant’s version of tai dop voy, that wonderful once around the kitchen dish of Chinese restaurants. Even though they saw us rarely, the owners of the small local restaurant were exceptionally good at face recognition. The perceptive front-of-house staff saw us at months five, six and seven. “What do you want to go with the tai dop voy?” they would ask. But one evening, well into month eight, I placed a takeout order: tai dop voy to go. Since he was up, I took our young son with me. It was late at night. It was a chillingly damp cold. The sleet was only outdone by the smell of steel production, Hamilton in December.
You are late, no wife?
No, a bit cold, due date is soon.
The next thing I know my son has a Shirley Temple in his hand. We are seated at the bar. Our takeout order comes bagged and I settle up. It is a bit heavier than normal. She notices that I notice.
“We are closing soon, there is some fried rice in there that would be going out. Enjoy. Have a healthy baby.”
When I get home there is not only fried rice but an order of chow mein and two orders of tai dop voy.
That was many years ago, most of a lifetime really. But those small kindnesses from real people who run local businesses made a difference. It was not just the savings – though that was appreciated. We were seen as more than a revenue source, we were a member of the community that the business served. It may be a nostalgic notion to think of a business and service at the same time. I am not sure many Canadians associate airlines or cellphone companies or grocery stories in the context of genuine “service” to the community. They may run their own foundations that their employees are required to cajole us to donate to at the checkout, but their customers are mostly anonymous, and their life circumstances seen as relevant to the extent that the apps they use help to determine which products to place at the end of the aisles.
Canadians are facing the fiscal tightening that those who managed life in previous tough times lived through. Fresh fruit? Maybe we’ll buy it next week. Bacon or eggs. But the generosity I experienced is not lost. I found it again recently at my local farmer’s market. A young family, it could have been my crew 40 years ago, talked quietly. They were debating adding another zucchini to the order (eavesdropping is an occupational hazard of mine). The local farmer shared a similar vantage point. He said, “Sorry I forgot, I have so many zucchinis this year. If you buy two you get another for free. Pick out any one you like.”
It is a stall with what I like to think of as ethically flexible pricing. No prices on the produce, but everything is fairly priced. Fair in the sense that community, kindness and caring are a part of the merchant/client relationship. He weighs my squash. Does $3 seem fair? Yes, it does.
“Shop local” campaigns rarely speak to the fundamental humanness that is possible in some marketplace settings. I appreciated what was symbolized by the kindnesses of various merchants during times when things were leaner – that we were seen as people making our shared way together. For my part, I will continue to support local farmer’s markets and family run restaurants and buy potatoes from a local Hutterite colony. I am happy to pay a “fair” price, knowing that there may be an extra cob of corn in the bag for the widow buying her eggs a half dozen at a time. My grandmother would have expected it of me.
Scott Grills lives in Brandon, Man.