Why I Love Southern Small Towns: A Grocery Store Conversation Over Duke’s Mayo

I stood in the condiment aisle trying to decide between a giant jar of Duke’s mayonnaise, or the giant giant jar of Duke’s mayo. If you’re from the South, you know Duke’s is a staple—it’s practically its own food group.

As I stood there debating, I heard a man’s voice behind me say, “You just can’t go anywhere anymore without gettin’ bad news.”

A Conversation in the Grocery Aisle

I turned and saw a gentleman—probably 75 or so—standing by me, clearly hoping to engage in conversation. In a small southern town grocery store, strangers rarely stay strangers for long.

I obliged.

“Oh my,” I replied. “I’m sorry you’ve been given bad news.”

He pointed toward the pickle shelves. “That woman I’s talkin’ to up ‘er, she told me about a friend of mine in Floyd who just died.”

I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Third friend I’ve had die in six months. Now my sister ain’t good. She’s in a nursing home. Ninety years old. Ain’t but this tall.” He held his hand out to show me how petite she was. “My Momma was small too—but a workhorse. She’d go out in the field to harvest crops with a baby on her hip, then come inside to cook. That was back in the 1930s and ’40s.”

I opened my mouth to say something—what, I don’t know—when he suddenly got a twinkle in his eye.

Connecting Over West Virginia Roots

“You from these parts?” he asked.

“No, sir. I’m originally from West Virginia.”

His eyes lit up. “What part?”

“Princeton,” I said.

“My Daddy was from Athens! Moved to Narrows when he was about 17. Got into some trouble for punching a man, ended up going to Mississippi, then they sent him over to Smyth County to work. How’d ya git down here?”

So, right there in the condiment aisle, I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of my last few decades—where I’d lived, why we’d moved, and how we’d ended up here.

He furthered the conversation into genealogy and ethnicity…

He grinned. “My last name is German. My Momma was French. I’ve got some Scotch in me too. I’m just an old hounddog!” He cackled with laughter until it turned into a cough. Then he patted his chest and added, “I have COPD, too.”

He started to leave. “It’s been nice talkin’ to ya.”

I smiled and told him the same, adding that I hoped he’d get some good news before the day was done.

“Me, too!” he said, laughing and coughing again.

Why I Love Small Southern Towns

That short three or four minutes in a grocery store aisle reminded me why I love small, southern towns. In Appalachia, rarely does one meet a stranger. Rarely does it feel awkward to share a piece of your life with someone you’ve never met. For many older folks, these conversations are their version of Facebook—connection through simple, everyday interactions.

And I’m always thankful to be part of it.

Oh—and in case you’re wondering—I went with the giant giant jar of Duke’s mayonnaise. I wouldn’t be a true Southern woman if I hadn’t.