No More Business as Usual. . .

Allison, Nick, Jake and Mason--Ideal friends.

Stupid pepitas.  (And who calls pumpkin seeds pepitas anyway?)

If it hadn't been for those blasted seeds, I'd have been at Ideal, like usual.  Chatting it up with Rob the butcher.  Thanking him for fixing Allison's car the other day.  Or asking Rick for a half pound of smoked turkey, thin sliced.  Or joshing with Jake about his weekend plans.

If it hadn't been for those stupid pepitas, the grocery list I'd written would have matched the aisles (--yeah, I'm one of those people). Instead, I found myself aimlessly roaming HyVee, a cacophonous excuse for a grocery store, where I knew I'd find a soulless self-serve container of pumpkin seeds, along with about ten million other items.  By the time I'd wheeled my too-big grocery cart into the too-full line at the register, I felt agitated and slightly paranoid.

"No, I don't have a stupid Fuel Saver card and use paper bags, please."

Several years ago, my friend Annie schooled me on the idea of the third place, a term for those sacred spaces beyond home and work where we seek out the comfort of others and strengthen our sense of community.   Ideal Grocery Store was a textbook third place.

My mom shopped there when I was a kid.  In fact, my parents were good pals with the owners, the Moores, who were funny and easy and welcoming, and who even let the Raglin clan play at their Fremont-lakes cabin from time to time.  And, when I got married and was looking for ways to practice being a contented adult, I turned to Ideal.  It was small and friendly and the people seemed to like working there, which is so important to me.

Through the years, Ideal and its staff confirmed over and over again the rightness of my decision to become a customer of theirs.  I will never forget Tall Bob knocking on my door just after I'd given birth to Eric, plant and Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch in hand.  Or the Ellenwood twins talking movies and musicals with me, and--every so often--calling me "Sally" instead of Jane, which, if you know my mom, is just about the highest compliment a girl can get.

I tried my first (and only) Parisian barbecue sauce at Ideal, after a customer had requested it and Tall Bob had to buy a case to fulfill the request.  Got some swanky tonic water there, as well. And incredible sharp cheddar cheese, and a glorious slice of very fancy ham.  All free of charge, simply because I'd shown an interest.

One morning, I left with a handful of Phish CDs, after a previous conversation about music with Brad.  And more than once, Nick--who was still friendly even after being assigned management of the toiletries aisle--sent me home with new outdoor adventures and locales to whet my nature-nerd appetite.

Ah, but this thing I had with Ideal wasn't just about what I got out of it.  Both of my kids spent a half dozen years working at Ideal.  Learning about excellent customer service, even when faced with that one crabby woman who always came to the store five minutes before closing and wanted her lone apple wrapped separately.  There, my kids learned how to manage money, how to bag groceries really well, how to cut produce expertly, how to work through exhaustion and frustration.  And they made friends there, as well.  Friends they've creeked and camped and longboarded with.  Friends who've shown up at graduation parties and musical performances.

Both Mark and I were awakened by the wailing sirens the other night.  We had no idea, of course, that they were going to Ideal.  When I got word early the next morning that it was gone?  Well, I can't quite bring myself to believe it.  Can't drive by and face that particular truth.  All these good people, scattered to the winds.  And I wonder if I'll see them again. . . .

Damned pepitas.