“El Porton” sat a little off the beaten path.  You didn’t stop there on your way to somewhere else.  You went there.  It wasn’t my first choice for Mexican food.   My first choice was “Fajitas”.  But “Fajitas” was small and situated just feet from a busy highway.  Closely spaced wooden tables didn’t allow for the bulk of construction workers and landscape laborers who regularly filled the place.  In contrast, “El Porton” was large and well appointed.  Ambient lighting showcased the sheen on highly-polished, hand-carved booths. 

Yesterday, I learned “El Porton” has closed.

“Eagle’s Landing” was a gift given to our community by Katrina.  The founders of the restaurant resettled here, bringing with them their best Cajun recipes.  They fashioned a restaurant out of a former bank building, leaving much of the interior intact.  Large parties were often seated inside the vault which featured the original foot-thick, steel door.  Formal white linens belied the casual atmosphere.  And the food!  “Eagles Landing” introduced me to barbequed shrimp which isn’t really barbequed at all.  Instead, medium-sized shrimp are cooked to perfection in a savory, herb-infused butter sauce and served in a large bowl decorated with crispy chunks of fresh french bread.  I found a recipe that comes very close.  My family loves it, but it’s not the same…

“Eagle’s Landing” closed six months ago.

“Miss Priss” was a specialty shop that was everything the name implies, and more.  If a man shopped there, he was sure to be tailing his woman, picking up hints as fast as she could drop them.  Mine usually involved jewelry.  The owners, two savvy women of a certain age, catered to a community caught up in school sports.  If it came in orange and blue, they carried it.  If it didn’t, they had it made.  Over the years, I’ve been presented several variations of orange handbag.  One is fur trimmed, one is quilted, and I have a straw bag for summer.  I own a white scarf featuring orange paw prints.  I have orange and blue necklaces, earrings, and bracelets.  And, every game day, I don a large-faced, rhinestone-encrusted watch featuring a wide orange band.  Serving as Team Mom, four years running, had its perks.

“Miss Priss” closed just after Christmas.

Boris is a crotchety old man.  Many times, as I perused shelves of herbs and vitamins, I cringed while he scolded a customer who expected magic from a pill bottle.  He titled himself a holistic healer, and I can’t argue the point. From herbs to soothe an anxious child to mineral management of mid-life malaise, Boris’ advice has served me well. 

“The Herbe Shoppe” closed last fall.

There’s a Kroger less than a mile from my house.  My buyer’s reward card entitles me to a ten-cent-per-gallon savings on Kroger gasoline, but I don’t use it.  I gas-up where I always have, at a small convenience store just around the corner.  The business is owned by an Indian family who, until recently, were always there en masse.  Last month, their daughter left to attend Columbia University.  She has a full scholarship and plans to use it to attend medical school. 

Very often, when I go inside, her mother and father are the only people in the store.  Both of them welcome me warmly, often with words I don’t understand but, we get by.  One day I hope to take Geeta up on her offer of henna tattoos.  Trailing her arm, or the length of her caramel colored neck, they provide a beautiful contrast to her Americanized style of dress. 

I can’t help but wonder how long they can hold on.  As I pull up to one of the antiquated pumps, I peer inside to assure myself they are there.  They lack the flash of the convenience store on the corner, the one serving five dollar pizzas.  And, they can’t compete with the prices charged by chains with big box buying power.  How long will they remain a part of our community?

Because that’s what all of these businesses were.  They weren’t just merchants.  They weren’t just buildings filled with items for purchase or food to eat.  They were people, people who’d invested in our community, people with whom we’d enjoyed a symbiotic relationship.  Some of them offered items we won’t easily replace.  Many of them supported community programs.  A few became friends.  All of them generated tax revenue, providing green space, parks and recreation, and emergency services.  And they had families.  Their kids go to school with my kids.  We’re neighbors…

I hear it often.  The arrangement of words may differ but the message is always the same, “Our economy is in trouble.”

And, it’s costing us much more than money.