The Good Life and a Loaf of Bread

When I lived in Kalamazoo, I was a really good grocery shopper. My lists were arranged by aisle, often with coupons, I had my route through the store planned out, and I would work through that supersized grocery store with crazy efficiency. In and out in an hour was my mentality, and I did it almost every time, filling my cart with meals for two weeks and getting back home before anybody missed me.

Since moving out here to the country a little more than three years ago, I've become a terrible grocery shopper. It's a joke between my wife and I. (Funny, too, except when it's holding up dinner.)  I go to the store for three things, say a gallon of milk, diapers, and some bread, and I come home an hour later with a gallon of milk and some diapers, no bread, and a handful of things I didn't intend to buy, but that ended up in my cart as I walked the aisles of the small town store.

So what happened to me? How did this change come about? Well, blame it on the good life.

I can't go into the local grocery store, the corner market, the gas station, the drug store, the ice cream stand, the restaurant, or any place else around here without running into people I know and want to talk to. A trip to the store for butter becomes a chance to hear how somebody's kid is doing off at college, or how somebody's mother is healing up after a knee replacement. A Sunday morning breakfast is never fast food, because visiting with whomever is eating out that day makes breakfast last at least until brunch, and sometimes even lunchtime. Stop for gas on a Saturday morning, and you'll see four different people fueling up before heading out to four different destinations. Stop that evening and hear about their adventures or their trips back home.

Of all the things I love about living and working in a small town, that's the thing I love best. In a town like Gobles, or Bloomingdale, or the small towns around us, from Kendall to Grand Junction, everybody is a neighbor, and there is this sense here that we are sharing our lives to a greater or lesser degree with every other person who calls these small towns home. Even if it's just the steady sound of passersby honking and waving as they drive past the house, saying hello and how are you is a way of life.

I had the same experience as a kid growing up in Niles. I used to stare off in the distance and roll my eyes and tap my feet impatiently as my mom or dad talked to every person in the store or the bank or after church, and I'd wonder why they were talking about nothing for so doggone long. And now I do it to my kids; I'm actually grateful they get a chance to experience what it's like to live in a community of people who think that nothing is a pretty important thing to talk about, after all.

I'll admit that I have finally gotten to a point where I can walk into the market when I really am in a hurry with my phrase ready: "sorry, have to grab some orange juice and get right home. Kids are waiting and I don't want to get in trouble with the wife, you know."

But back at home the wife knows.  She knows because she's the exact same way. She knows everybody I know in this small town, and she knows everybody I don't know, too. So in my house it's actually better to send me to the store for butter if we want to get the job done quickly. And if we both go to the store, forget about it. Dinner isn't getting made that evening in any hurry. I guess that's why they sell that delicious fried chicken that's hot and ready to serve. Oh, and don't forget the bread.


Note: This blog post is from a series originally published as personal essays written for the Van Buren County Advertiser from 2008-2014 by Corey Harbaugh under the title It's All Good. The It's All Good columns were written to feature and celebrate life in and around Gobles, Michigan.