By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
A friend of mine from work recently discovered my favorite locally owned grocery store. He’d heard about it for ages—not just from me, but from nearly everyone within a sizeable radius. Calling it a “supermarket” feels a bit exaggerated; perhaps “weemarket” fits better. Yes, I like that—*weemarket* it is. It may be tiny in size, but its reputation is anything but. Folks in neighboring cities know it well, particularly for its meat, as the store does all its own butchering. If this store is known for one thing far and wide, it is meat. The high opinions on that have done some traveling.
When my friend finally found it, he sent me a photo and joked that it was in the middle of nowhere. He wasn’t wrong—it’s definitely remote. And coming from a rural person like me, that’s saying something. One of the things he felt compelled to note—besides his scenic detour into the boondocks—was how incredibly nice everyone was.
That’s one of the defining traits of rural life. People out in cattle country or among the hayfields are, by and large, genuinely amiable. Maybe it’s because when you spend most of your time around livestock and family, any chance to see someone new is a treat. That might be part of it the cordial manner of these parts.
I frequent this weemarket often, and I completely agree with my coworker’s assessment. The people there are ridiculously kind. Of course, the reputation of this place being what it is, there are a lot of regulars. Sure, regulars are known and welcomed, but you don’t need to be a familiar face to garner a warm welcome. My friend, on his first visit, was likely greeted as though he’d been coming there for years. I’ve seen it happen countless times—strangers treated like neighbors.
I’ve watched customers let others with fewer items go ahead in line. I’ve overheard passionate conversations between total strangers about the best way to cook what’s in their carts. I’ve chatted with the cashiers about dinner plans, favorite recipes, or even just hair compliments and kind words about my daughter helping unload the cart. It’s that kind of place.
There’s a certain homeyness about the store—really, about rural life in general. Maybe it’s because these are “salt of the earth” folks who understand the inherent value of things earned by hard work, and in turn, the value of people. Unfortunately, those values don’t always translate to more populated areas.
My coworker lives in the city where we work and is often frustrated with its residents. Granted, it’s a university town, which skews the population. There are many international residents who, while not unkind, may be unfamiliar with local customs which can be easily misconstrued as lack of courtesy. Then there’s a segment of the highly educated who, in my experience from nearly 25 years in higher education, often carry an inflated sense of self-importance—which doesn’t lend itself to friendliness. And of course, there are the college students: not intentionally rude, just often unaware. Manners and social graces don’t seem to be as much of a priority anymore, and there’s a noticeable sense of entitlement that doesn’t help.
To be fair, there are exceptions. I know a professor from Argentina who is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. There are students who are clearly thoughtful—though still, in my view, often clueless. And some city residents were raised in rural households or moved from rural areas. Or perhaps they just remember this college town when it still had the small town feel to it and their consideration for others is evident.
Still, the overall atmosphere in the city just isn’t the same. It’s a far cry from the kind of place where a man sits in his front yard waving at every car that passes, or where the cashiers ask about your family—or your dinner—even if it’s your first time in.
My little store may be small, but you’ll find almost everything you need. Its meat is famous for freshness and flavor. But more importantly, whether you’re from across the field or across the ocean, you’ll walk in and feel like you belong.
Prose and Possibilities 