Confessions of a Small Business Fanatic
Jo Kadlecek
'The underdogs around the block'
It started with flowers. Roses really, the color of cherry tomatoes, delivered fresh from the truck to living rooms or offices throughout my neighborhood. Veld Kamp Florist had been around, it seemed, since forever, and my mom always called them whenever we had to go to a funeral or an anniversary party. I went to school with a couple of Veld Kamp kids, but I sort of felt sorry for them: they never could go out for the basketball team or attend the winter dances. Christmas and Valentine’s Day were just too important for florists. I guess those Veld Kamp kids were helping with the roses.
Flowers turned to root beer. My friend’s mom owned and operated one of the last existing A&W Root Beer drive-ins in our city and one summer in high school I needed a job. So I car-hopped. I took orders and poured root beer. I watched my friend’s mom flip burgers, scoop ice cream, and count money at the end of every day, hoping to take home enough to pay her light bills, after she paid us. It wasn’t easy work, but it was hers.
Throughout college and a short career in public education, I followed my nose in and out of bakeries owned by three generations of Millers, delis run by Italian immigrants, and hair salons operated by Millie or Jessica or CarolAnn. I liked going into these small places; they were homey and real and familiar. I liked seeing family photos taped to the counter next to the cash register, or handwritten message boards outlining the day’s choices when I walked in.
They were different from the shops at the malls, the ones that always felt like a hospital ward, only with fancy names.
So the habit stuck. Through most of my adult life, I’ve remained a faithful fan of the small business. While some friends cheer the Giants or applaud the latest techno-gadget thing, I’ve been a sucker for the underdogs around the block.
Which is why, I suppose, I can’t forget the literary Irish couple who ran a copy center and typing service because they loved words and each other enough to work together 24/7. Or Tony’s Laundromat where Charlie, the owner, would polish the dryers and scold the teenagers who made too much noise. Or the manager of the single-screen cinema who mortgaged his house to make sure the “monster-plexes” didn’t destroy the joy of going to the movies. Or the Brown Brothers, who inherited their father’s bicycle shop sixty years ago and admitted “the first fifty-nine were tough.”
I can’t forget the dozens of other heroic characters who’ve dug their heels into the corner of their community to keep their business—hardware, drugstore, cleaners, whatever—going. No matter what. No matter how many chain restaurants or Wal-marts popped up around them. After all, their lives and their futures, their messy offices and accounting books are as much a part of the spirit of commerce as any billboard or television commercial. In the process, they’ve made these places as sacred as any church or temple, spaces where faith still struggles beside economic reality. Where dignity isn’t lost on a price tag. Where conversations aren’t reduced to a sales strategy.
Call me a hippie or a quack, but I like buying local. In our world of Internet shopping and conglomerate addictions, buying local helps me remember the real people, families, and neighbors who still run their small businesses on principle and passion, even when cash is low. I guess they keep something alive that the bullies of capitalism can’t kill, no matter how they’ve tried. And they have. These little guys, though, remind me that attached to every purchase is a story, a breathing testimony that lines my jackets and connects me to the sheer tenacity that makes us human. They remind me that I—that we—belong. That our give and take culture doesn’t have to be as greedy or as chilly as it seems.
After all, we’ll always need flowers to send.
After fifteen years of freelance writing, Jo Kadlecek joined the faculty of Gordon College in 2006 as an assistant professor of communication arts and creative writing. Her most recent books include A Quarter After Tuesday and A Mile From Sunday, the first two of a trilogy of novels. Jo’s web site is www.lamppostmedia.net.
