Column Tales of the sassafras trees
By RICH HEFFERN
A low morning sun flashed through
breaks in the bare hardwoods as we drove the roller coaster road to the store.
On a spring vacation in the Missouri Ozarks, we needed one item to complete a
pie recipe. Reaching the town of Champion (population 22), we parked near a
little emporium with weathered pine slab siding and rusted tin roof, the only
business edifice in town. My wife and I woke the cat sleeping on the displaced
bus seat on the porch as we rushed in.
We were, of course, in a hurry.
Inside, Duane the proprietor sold us the canned milk, then emerged
from behind the counter to perch on the wooden pop cartons stacked around the
wood stove. On the way we had cautioned ourselves we were far from the city,
that this was the Ozarks. Consequently, time had slowed down. So we sat by the
warm stove, visiting, catching up, joking. Duanes question, How
youuns been? required time to answer, and he had time to listen.
Then it was his turn.
First Duane reminisced about the bad winter just past. He recalled
the morning after a December ice storm when he parked his pickup outside the
store, set the brake, went in to fire up the stove inside, then glanced up
through the window to witness his Ford heading south. The wheels werent
even rolling! Now thats an ice storm!
Our talk drifted somehow to sassafras trees. Ordinarily these
trees grow in the forest understory and never top out at more than five or six
feet, but occasionally in a fencerow with access to sunlight one will grow to
unusual size. We compared notes on whoppers we had seen. I spotted one once
just north on Fox Creek when I worked there for the Conservation Department
years ago. A neighbor happened to wander in for some cough syrup. He
eavesdropped while he browsed the few shelves and said he had a biggy on his
farm, too. He paid, then sat on the cartons with us and told about a gum tree
near his barn that not only qualified for the record books but was home to a
family of rare pileated woodpeckers, and about a persimmon tree by the pond
often visited by bluebirds and cedar waxwings. Our talk had segued into Ozark
bird lore.
Barbara, Duanes wife, wandered in, sat on the last available
pop crate, and our conversation took an abrupt right turn to mountain
peoples superstitions, on which subject Barbara knew a lot. Her list for
that day: Always put your right shoe on first. If you find your initials on a
spiders web you will be lucky all your life. Always leave by the same
door you came in. Its bad luck to return borrowed dishes unwashed. If a
girl wants a new dress she should catch a butterfly of the same color and mash
it between her teeth.
We left with a kind of glow from the visit.
The next day we visited West Plains, a much larger town, in search
of a replacement glass pane.
Twenty years ago when I lived nearby, my vintage kerosene
refrigerator needed a new part. Then a local hardware store sat on West
Plains town square, complete with scuffed hardwood floors, big lazy
ceiling fans and even a soda fountain in the back, featuring root beer floats,
good coffee and big slices of homemade sweet potato pie. I knew they could help
me somehow. The clerk looked at the broken wick separator, led me down the
aisles, up to the attic and found stashed high on a dusty shelf a replacement,
though the manufacturer had gone out of business in 1963. A leisurely
conversation about kerosene refrigerators, once common in those parts,
followed. I learned a lot about how folks survived in the depression years
before electricity came to the Ozark hollows (not until the late 1950s).
Now that local hardware store was long out of business, unable to
compete with the discount store out on the highway. We ventured into the
sprawling supercenter, passing a sign at the door indicating employees were
taking up a collection for a colleague ill with cancer (who though full-time
was probably without health care benefits). Inside, the guy cutting glass was
too hurried and harried for much conversation.
Shopkeeper Duane and his little community store are endangered
species. This seems to be the way of things for the last 20 years or so:
increasingly large chains forcing small stores out of business, as
community-based economics yields to corporate greed. Studies show that,
propaganda to the contrary, the money flows out of the community when these
giants move in. Workers too often are held to a schedule with too few hours to
get benefits. Small town squares, once vital centers of rural communities, get
boarded up; the locally owned stores cant compete with predatory pricing
and volume buying.
Megamarts elbow their way in, then standardize, homogenize. A
saunter through the West Plains store is not much different from the same trip
through, say, one in Lodi or Oshkosh. And its not just stores dealing in
general goods anymore. Its every kind. In my city, there used to be three
or four small, quirky bookstores, where the clerks knew me, where heated
arguments could brew up at the checkout counter over trends in sci-fi or the
merits of Charles Bukowskis poetry. Now they all are gone, victims of the
megabook chains.
To add insult to the injury to local community, many big chains
glue on a façade of friendliness or homeyness that is veneer thin, with
maybe a greeter at the door or a coffee bar (also an outpost of a corporation).
But they are not friendly or homey; they make our world increasingly boring,
predictable and soulless. And for what? Just to get a rock-bottom price on a
blender, a box of Cheerios or the latest Harry Potter?
It seems more and more we live in an economy that thrives by
undermining its own foundations, expanding mindlessly while gobbling up all
that is best about community and quality of life. Growth for the sake of
growth, said curmudgeon Edward Abbey, is really the ideology of the
cancer cell.
A crusader against this trend is poet and farmer Wendell Berry. To
read him, you would think he was a spokesperson for Catholic social teaching.
Both speak eloquently for a human-scale economy, one where people matter over
profits. A community economy, Berry writes, is not an economy
in which well-placed persons can make a killing. It is an economy
whose aim is generosity and a well-distributed and safeguarded abundance.
A sustainable local economy will depend on consumers loyal to local products
and locally owned businesses. It wasnt that long ago that this was the
norm.
My wife and I decided that we prefer paying the extra money to
locally owned businesses rather than save with the big guys. The slightly
higher prices are an investment. We vote with our money. We want to see Duane
and his ilk increase and multiply. We paid more for the canned milk, but if we
hadnt we would have missed out on the talk -- and probably left the store
by the back door instead of the front.
Rich Heffern is the former editor of Praying magazine
and a staff member of NCR. His e-mail address is
rheffern@natcath.org
National Catholic Reporter, May 18,
2001
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