An Ode to Dollar General

The Mother We Deserve

Dollar General….

If you’re anything like I used to be, you turn up your nose and sneer at the sight of that black and yellow sign, glowing its cheerless welcome on the corner between the gas station and the cornfield, a dubious signpost to mark the boundary of “civilization.”

“If I had one wish, it would be to live in a world with no Dollar Generals,” is the sort of thing I might have said at a party (I’m a hoot at parties), to denote myself as an enlightened soul, a cogitator of the Big Questions, someone keenly attuned to what we, as a culture, have lost, who has not—and never will—cease to mourn it.

And there are still times when I wish that a trip to the market meant a chat with old Bessie Minchin, who lives up t’churchyard way and sells gnarled apples which despite their repulsive appearance taste as if the good Saint Dunstan himself had blessed them…or something along those lines. Instead, on my trip to market, I am usually forced to track down a waifish employee named Krysta, who flickers like a minnow through the aisles and who, when I finally snare her in the godforsaken corner between the “Fashion Leggings” and the adult diapers, seems to feel that I owe her an apology for needing assistance. And since she possesses that quality peculiar to Dollar General employees of appearing simultaneously one Mountain Dew away from a medical emergency yet capable of committing homicide with a pack of Rolos, more often than not, I mumble an apology and wander off on my search for cat food alone.

Given how very wee these tawdry emporiums appear from the outside, it’s incredible how difficult it is to find anything other than an aggressively chipper mug anywhere, like a quest out of a Greek myth. I am convinced that the shelves are attached to a giant turntable, which Kyrsta activates after hours, hell-bent on revenge for the cat-food question.

Yes, Dollar General is a curious, even an eerie, place. And yet…where would we be without it? Where would we—we few, we cultured few, we band of Luddites, who have removed ourselves to the nation’s rural corners, whether or not we are equipped to deal with the repercussions—be without this austere mother, spreading her thin arms in a cold yet plenteous welcome? She's no cozy auntie, Dollar General, no kindly childless matron, longing for a little one of her own to coddle and indulge. Dollar General has a passle of young ones; she’s neither given nor expected love but they’ll never be able to say she waren’t a good provider.

So you’re one of the elite that scorns The Walking Dead and binge-watches Little Dorrit on a Friday night; your preferred companion in this venture is a mug of tea the size of a clawfoot tub, and this is as it should be. But you forgot as you boiled your kettle that the last teabag was employed this afternoon, as you perused the poetry of Robert Frost over your modest luncheon. And who will be there to fill the void with its spare yet eminently serviceable tea selection?

Dollar General, of course.

But Dollar General stocks a product called “Doggy Poopy Bags,” you say. Isn’t that alone ample reason for immediate extermination?

That they stock Doggy Poopy Bags, I cannot deny, but so, too, do they stock the elixir known as Peanut Butter Park. How many travails and toil-worn days, how many long and weary hours, have melted away with the first spoonful of Peanut Butter Blessed Park? I defy even Bessie Minchin to rival its sweetness.

They’re antithetical to the principles of culture and conviviality that we try to instill in our children!—you rage. Have you seen them, Charlotte? Have you seen them shoving candy canes and twinkle lights down people’s throats on the first of October? Beating their customers over the head with heart-shaped boxes of Russell Stover assorted chocolates the day after Christmas? They’re hand in hand with the Prince of Darkness, sowing confusion in the minds of our impressionable young!

I have seen, and I, too, have raged.

But who is there at 9:47 on the eve of St. Nicholas’ Day, when forgetful parents everywhere are rushing out to stock up on chocolate coins and crayon boxes to stuff in the shoes of their eager little offspring; to what establishment belongs the door that slides reluctantly open that night; who is the purveyor of these treasures beyond price that keep St. Nicholas alive in the minds and hearts of youngsters for another year?

None other than Dollar General.

Do I still hope for a world without Dollar Generals? The question is a difficult one. That I would like to build a world where she is no longer needed, I cannot deny. But that is not this world, and that is not this time. At present, we still have need of her, and she is there. And when the day comes, as I pray it does, when we need her no longer, still I will thank her for the goods which she supplied when there was none other—no, not even Bessie Minchin—to supply them. And I will plant a grateful kiss upon her wizened, unyielding cheek as I bid her farewell.

Just don’t ask me to kiss Krysta. She’s got a pack of Rolos.

—C.C.