Little Shop

I am endlessly dazzled by the sorts of business enterprises that people manage to find or establish: antique surf board dealer and refinisher (awesome!); cultured pearl inoculation specialist; hot-air balloon equipment supplier; elevator interior designer; otter breeder; war canoe carver; vintage apron purveyor; restoration hinge ironsmith; yacht photographer...you get the idea.

My career trajectory has been more ordinary than exotic, and I often think about corralling my interests and opening a shop where I could dabble all day with stuff that I really like. The real challenge is discovering that perfect retail niche. I've been walking in and out of shops all of my life, and I still don't know how a person chooses between a year-round Bavarian Christmas Store and a Beeswax Candle Shop. Perhaps the answer is diversification.

For example, I grew up in the sort of town that had a sportsman's store. As one would expect, the little shop sold fishing gear, hunting bows, ammunition, guns and rifles, varmint traps and worms. You might see a pair of thermal socks in the window, a Jack Daniels flask, or a handbag made from a hollowed out, shellacked and dead armadillo. But, for the most part, the goods related to a recognizable theme - as in "we're in the business of recreationally killing stuff." You did not expect to see, say, a set of Edwardian chamber pots among the wading boots or a book on Ikebana next to the cooler of night crawlers.

And yet, small town stores tend to be arenas of competing family interests. The shop on Main Street past the grocery store established itself as Schneider's Taxidermy way back before anyone's memory. Schneider's served the taxidermy needs of the community in the traditional way. There was the occasional jar of venison jerky on the counter for sale, but the owners had stayed close to their presumed business plan of "You Shoot 'em-We'll Stuff 'em" through several generations of Schneiders. Then an entrepreneurial wind blew into town and diversifying became all the rage.

Schneider's expanded into "Schneider's Taxidermy and Fudge Emporium." While you're waiting to pick up your son's first ten-point buck trophy, why not sample the pecan pralines and buy a box of Divinity since you're there? At the taxidermist's...where they gut wildlife AND serve fudge.

A few years later, the Schneiders started selling a line of rustic furniture. The various settees and rocking chairs both complimented the mounted animal heads and allowed customers to relax while they enjoyed the outstanding fudge. I've lost track of the additions in recent years, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the Schneiders have expanded the enterprise to include a cigar lounge and a poetry-slam night.

The Geisel's had the store next to the Palace Theatre. Danny Geisel was the lead guitarist and singer in a local country two-step band called...um...something with "wagons" in it. The "Wagonaires", the "Wagoneers" the "WagonWheels"...nope. Maybe wagons weren't involved. Anyway, he had a band and was a bit of a local celebrity. And he owned a business named The Guitar Shop.

Now, Danny came from a family who appreciated their groceries and Danny's mother was a full-figured sort of woman. Mrs. Geisel apparently felt that the needs of the plus-size shopper were best met by establishing her clothing boutique in Danny's guitar store. To be fair, the small space was divided down the middle by an invisible agreement so that a bass player didn't have to sit on a pile of ladies' foundation garments to try out a new amplifier, but it was pretty tight quarters, nevertheless.

This sort of merchandising madness went on everywhere in my town. Stores sold dissimilar items in tandem like local peaches and pottery, boots and summer sausage, lumber and art supplies, chain saws and volleyballs. An actual dulcimer shop moved into town and, almost immediately, started offering a comprehensive selection of cuckoo clocks. No one seemed to think it odd. Never mind that the following exchange does not take place in normal reality (read this in a drawl, if you can manage it):

Husband: "Rhonda...I'm drivin' to town to pick up feed and buy a new sucker rod for the windmill. D'ya need anythin' from the store?"

Wife: "Well, if you go by there, Duane Wayne, we could use another set of dulcimer strings and see if they got any new cuckoo clocks in. Our old one is just about cuckooed to hell."

I suppose the operating philosophy is that if you offer just about everything in the known universe, you're bound to sell something. I've worked in a variety of retail venues and think I'd enjoy having a store. I like people (mostly)...I like stuff. I can add and subtract. The real challenge will be deciding what sort of store best suits my whimsical nature. Will I offer a variety of goods, or will I specialize? Diversify or micro-market? An "Emporium" or a business that starts with "Just..."? "Just Sponges", "Just Codpieces". "Just Puffins".

If I were to open a shop and if I were to name it something like "Gee-gaws and Doo-Dads" or "Knick-Knackery and Nimwits" or "Objet", I would be walking straight into the hole of no discernible market niche. This has a great appeal since I could combine all of my favorite things under one roof. Imagine if you will, a case of teas tucked in next to a row of harps. In between the harps, I could set up the display of orchids. The Scottish Terriers could just mingle and play with the customers until they were purchased. If I included an olive bar, Hawaiian fabrics, a selection of books on architecture, a complete line of El Naturalista shoes, a Palomino, a force pool and offered some space in my store to a pedicurist, a psychic and a Nia instructor, I would never have to leave.

The downside of all of this whimsy is that it's hard to advertise in the Yellow Pages, and harder still to develop a loyal clientele. What would my ad say? "Come for a cuppa chai, stay for the Scotties!" Who is looking for a lever harp and a pedicure at the same venue? (Well, I am ...but I'm already in the store.) So, I'm thinking that specializing is, possibly, a better business strategy, once you can identify your particular calling.

For years, I passed a store called "Just Bar Stools" (rivaled by another local favorite "Just Guns"). I often wondered if, somehow, you know as a young person, that you are destined to devote your life to the acquisition and distribution of bar stools. Are you born into a family of bar stool craftsman and retailers? Did your great-grandfather, Gustav, come to America to find a better life? Did he set up his little foot-driven lathe in a damp, rodent infested workshop turning beautiful mahogany stools for the wealthy speak-easy patrons whom he both feared and admired? Or, were you profoundly affected by a bar stool in your formative years - "...I was going under for the last time, everything was going black, and then Wanda threw that barstool in the water and, I tell you, it saved my life!"

The notion of choosing one set of objects among a virtually infinite array of potential items to retail is a daunting task. On a recent trip to a gardening store, I asked about a particular plant. The nurseryman shook his head and said, "We used to carry those, but don't have any now. Our begonia supplier went out of business."

How do you become a begonia supplier? And did the begonia market suffer from some sort of downturn that the supplier was forced into bankruptcy? Has America developed a preference for cheaper, imported begonias or is there a powerful anti-begonia lobby at work pressuring congress to pass pro-geranium legislation? It baffles.

Just a quick flip through my local Yellow Pages shows me that people have stores that offer tranquility ponds, plantation shutters, Mayan spa services (ritual human sacrifice, optional), exotic hardwoods, light bulbs (The Light Bulb Shop....seriously, and not to be confused with, oh no, The Lamp Shop), reptiles and amphibians, gas logs (The Gas Log Specialists...how many years of training does that require before you get your license, I wonder), mantels (I'm sorry, but it's true...The Mantle Shop), brakes (at Just Brakes) and commercial coffee equipment. I didn't even get to bar-b-que grills or cranes (either kind).

Then, move on to any commercial enterprise that starts with "Mother's". You have to ask yourself how anyone's mother made such a profound commercial impression on a child's life that years later, that child would be compelled to open a business called "Mother's Window Tint & Burglar Alarms" ("Window tinting just like Mom used to do.") or "Mother's Tattoos" ("Tatts just like Ma used to have."). You start to appreciate that anything is possible if you have enough imagination.

My shelter magazines are filled with couples who gave up their corporate careers to follow their retail dreams. One pair opened a lifeguard swimsuit wholesale business (seriously - they have cornered the market on swimsuits for lifeguards; they design and sew them themselves). Another couple grafts and sells heirloom raspberry canes. Some husband, somewhere, makes and sells handmade fragrances while his wife is a recognized shell artist - their shop is called "Smells & Shells" (ok...I made that up, but it's possible).

I'm no closer to my dreams of shopkeeper success, but I feel that something is bound to resonate eventually. Apparently, it's possible to offer just about anything up to the marketplace. I forget where, but somewhere in the U.S., there's a firm that collects and then retails vintage (read "rusty") patio furniture. I don't remember the name, but if it were my establishment, I'd call it "Just Tetanus".

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Ingrid is currently living and respectably employed in Austin, Texas with a firm specializing in environmental law. She hopes to get back home to the San Juan Islands next spring to stay.
While Ingrid is spiritually promiscuous, she credits her guru, Jimmy Buffet, for her mantra..."If we couldn't laugh, we would all go insane." Besides a passion for Tiki Studies, Ingrid is borderline biblio-obsessive. She is an old-school Libran - i.e., she won't be leading the Revolution, but she'll work to make it an attractive affair and hire the musicians and caterers."

Her column appears every other Thursday in San Juan Islander. To contact Ingrid, send emails to ingrid@sanjuanislander.com

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