“I need some stainless steel bolts,” I might say. “Half-inch flatheads, six-and-a-half inches, machine thread, with washers, lock washers, and nuts. Eight of ‘em”

“What in the world are you buildin’, Willy?” I’d tell him, and he’d either agree that my solution was the best or suggest an alternative. If necessary, he’d make a phone call or two, turning to me to ask whether UPS ground was okay, or did I want them overnight.

If I ever remarked about the cost of some item – and I often do, just as a matter of form – he’d point to the parking lot out front. “You see that Jaguar out there? Somebody’s got to help pay for it. Aah, you guys who complain,,” he’d sigh. “I don’t know about you. I lose money on everything that goes out the door. But luckily, I make it up in volume.” Bin’s sudden death, some years ago. was a tremendous blow to all of us who liked him as much as we depended upon him.

By contrast, when I was pricing composite decking for our house last spring, Mother, who’s a habitual big-box shopper, talked me into trying Home Depot. The decking is pretty expensive, and a small difference in price would make a big difference in the cost of the whole job.

We walked in, and wandering through long, mostly deserted aisles, found the decking stacked in racks. The price for a 16-foot piece was indeed a little more than a dollar less than what I would pay at my local lumber yard for the same brand. “This isn’t the color I want,” Mother said. “Let’s see if they have it in burnished amber.” The brochure she was looking at had, I noticed, come from the local yard. Its name was stamped on the back.

There was no one in sight except a few homeowners poking and pulling at piles of building material. Not a salesperson anywhere. I went on a hunt and found one in plumbing. “Hi,” I said. “Is there somebody who can answer questions about the composite decking over there.”

“The what?” I turned from his vacant expression, returned to Mother, and got out of there.

All our lives we’re taught that we get what we pay for. Yet, in spite of abundant evidence substantiating that adage, when the time comes to buy, we try to get around it. We grouse about the exportation of American jobs, but we buy imported goods almost exclusively. We pass vacant, dismal storefronts on our way to the mall or suburban big boxes with never a thought about either the vitality we’ve lost in our town centers or the gasoline we’re burning to get away from them. We buy the argument of developers that they’re creating hundreds of good new jobs, and fail to notice they’re often filled by workers who lost their jobs when local businesses went under, killed by the illusion that bigger is better and cheaper.

I’ll tell you: nobody ever did it better than old Bin and his guys. And that went for the local pharmacist, too, who knew what medicines you were taking for what problems; the butcher, who always saved my grandmother a choice loin or roast for Sunday; the haberdasher, who knew your sizes; the department store owner; and the bookstore manager, who tipped you off when something on one of your favorite subjects was coming up. We’ve come a long way from that., but it’s still possible to shop for what you need with people who understand the difference, for example, between a P-trap and a mechanical vent, or a four-way switch and a ground-fault breaker.

Obviously, it’s impossible to buy local in every instance. If you check the catalog of that iconic American retailer, L.L. Bean, you’ll notice that virtually every item in it is “Imported.” The same is true of many other American brands. But just as you want a doctor, dentist or lawyer who knows your situation and treats you as if you’re his most important client, you also need others who know you – at the bookstore, the pharmacy, the lumber yard, and the diner on the corner.

Most important, they need you, too. If we let our downtowns die – or as in the case of Hanover, for example, let them be dominated by chichi shops catering to tourists and the carriage trade – we have ourselves to blame for the way they look and feel. Both vacant storefronts and show windows filled with goods beyond our average means are an affront to community. Those store owners who are clinging to life in the face of out-of-town, corporate competition are our friends and neighbors. Wouldn’t you, if you were, say, an electrician, be upset if the owner of a store or restaurant you patronized hired an out-of-town electrical outfit to wire his house? (As a former small contractor, I can tell you for sure you would.) The money we spend at local businesses stays in town for a few more rounds before it leaves.

After 40 years in the Connecticut Valley, Mother and I are settling into a totally new situation. So far I’ve found a barber, a physician, a dentist, a periodontist, a lumber yard, a church, a bookstore, a pharmacy, and a notary public. Oh! and a fantastic hardware store. It ain’t Bin – there’s no Jaguar out front or friendly raillery inside yet – but it’ll do. It’ll do just fine.