Corporate Giants versus Mom and Pop

I normally don't write newspaper columnists but Neil Steinberg's column in the the Sun-Times of Monday February 14, 2011, got my attention. He wrote about the difficulty of a mom and pop business trying to keep its head above water in a era of mega-retailers. Being in the same boat, I had to respond. 

 Dear Neil,

   I read your column regularly but today's forced me to sit down and write you.
   Like Holly Sjo of Cupcake Counter I'm "concerned" about the encroachment of giant, soulless conglomerates who snuff out the dreams of small business people like them, and myself. You absolutely do get "a little heartbroken." Actually, a lot heartbroken. They've been at it two years. We've been doing it almost seventy-four. It doesn't get any easier.
   You could probably spend the rest of your career writing about the plight of mom and pop businesses making a stand against the relentless force of giant mega-retailers with their economies of scale, fancy logos, and huge advertising budgets--if they last that long. Unless something changes, and quickly, small retail business in this country is doomed.
   At some time in a dismal future, I see Walmart as the only retail outlet of any consumer commodity. Gone will be the days of visiting a store and dealing with the same person again and again. You won't get to know anyone in that store and they won't care about you any further than what it takes to sell you something and get you out of their hair. You'll know their name only because it's laminated on a plastic tag hanging on a lanyard or pinned to their apron. They won't make an attempt to learn yours. Personal, caring service will be a thing of the past. Doing something for the love of it and making a living at the same time will be long gone. Making a buck will be the only reason to go to work.
   Until that day comes, we'll be here in our little stores, ready to help our customers any way we can. They'll know us even though we don't wear fancy name tags. We'll know their faces, greet them personally, and even start getting their orders ready when they walk in the door. That's customer service, a rapidly dying art.

 

Catholics, Come Home

   Our local archdiocese has been running a series of beautiful, moving commercials attempting to get fallen-away Catholics to return to their faith. These spots run one to two minutes and would make even the most hard-core lost sheep consider coming back. If they’d preached in the past the message of love and forgiveness they’re presenting now, maybe they wouldn’t have to call for Catholics to come home.  
   But that’s not the problem for me. As anyone of a certain age who went to Catholic school knows, the nuns, priests, and brothers were sticklers for grammar and punctuation. An error in either of these areas would get the errant student a rap across the knuckles or any convenient body part with a wooden pointer, steel ruler, leather strap, or other instrument of torture. 
   In my own experience the worst was Brother Collins, my junior-year English teacher at Leo High School. His weapon of choice was a leg from a broken stool. The student would read a sentence with no capitalization or punctuation while standing next to the good Brother. The student would make corrections as he went. Brother Collins stood ready to reward a wrongly-placed comma, missed capital, or errant quotation mark with a swift shot just above the knee. Make another mistake and he struck a little higher. Those of us who were taught this way strive for perfection in our writing under a threat of swift retribution, permanently etched in our cerebral cortex, by teachers like Brother Collins and his ilk. 
   Let’s face it. They turned us into grammatical sticklers. Our eyes are immediately drawn to a misspelling in the text of one of those tiny disclaimers that flash for two seconds at the end of a car ad on TV. We cringe when we see a sign that says “Kitty’s for sale” on the side of the road. We actually pull over to determine if they’re selling kittens or trying to get rid of their daughter, Kitty.
   Therein lies the problem with the Catholics Come Home campaign. Anyone taught the way we were would catch it right away and fear being struck blind by seeing such a linguistic travesty. It’s the bane of sticklers.
   Catholics Come Home is direct address and requires a comma. Otherwise it’s merely a statement of fact. For example, “boys run” isn’t the same call to action as “boys, run.” Catholics, Come Home says, “We want you back.” Hard to tell what it means without the comma.
    Any stickler not “comma-tose” from the error of the ad campaign would be stopped dead by the sign outside our church door as they try to return. It reads, “Welcome Home Catholics.” Without the comma it sounds like the name of a Christian Band. This weekend at all Masses: The Welcome Home Catholics. Welcome Home, Catholics would keep the leather strap in its sheath.
   As one who’s seen the declining attendance at Sunday Mass I hope this campaign is a success of biblical proportions. Maybe it would do better with proper punctuation,.