Garden Street

Our neighborhood market closed its doors this afternoon ending an era of walking a few short blocks to grab a ripe mango when the recipe called for one. Or, brie, a pear and Carr's wheatmeal crackers to accompany a crisp Beaujolais or robust Burgundy. But especially when blizzards blew in a foot and a half of snow and I ran out of marshmallows for the cocoa to warm our souls.

The village. Our eclectic neighborhood of residents, shopkeepers and bankers applauding when the owner turned the key in the sliding glass doors for the final time. Cameras flashed. Tears flowed. The loss duly noted. The death of traditional locally owned business crippled by the economy and greedy, lusting corporate retail chains locating elsewhere in town.

Cheers to mom-and-pops across small town America. May you thrive and thumb your collective noses at big biz. Boo-hiss on big box stores and their impersonal ways.