Thirty years later, I have not been able to find a Dr. Pepper that can satisfy my soul like the one I drink when I stop at Maggie’s. Her silhouette alone at the register is as jolly as it has ever been, although, I do believe this week has aged the entire town I grew up in by many years. It’s been a hard week with the loss of a dear and beloved man. Grandpa Jacob had been living here his entire life. For as long as my childhood memories could reach, my father would drive the two hours along the farm roads for a visit. Windows rolled down and a breeze blowing through wheat on one side; watching cattle graze on the other.

For the first part of my memories, I would watch my old man, with his old man putter around the fields with giant tractors circling around and around. Sometimes they would grab me to take a ride, until one day my feet reached the pedals. Then it was my turn to join in the field parade. There’s no dry like wheat dust. It finds its way into every part of who you are and cakes to the back of your neck, insides of your elbows and the back of your throat. Which is why the end of every day became my favorite time. Because always, before supper time, Pa would lean down to me and say, “Hey little man, how about a soda pop at Maggies”. We’d climb into the tractor and rumble into town.

Maggie was a local legend. As much spirit as she had sass. Her shop was small, but the next store was 30 miles away — hours out of a farm day when you’re driving a tractor. So, locals would fill their machinery up with gas, grab a sandwich or a bucket of chicken and the best sweet tea you could imagine. But me… always a Dr. Pepper. It hit the back of my throat in just the spot to shake off the dust from a million tractor miles. And why now, as I walk into Maggie’s and grab that first sip of Dr. Pepper, the sting hits a little harder and Maggie… a little wearier than I remember her – sees everything.

“He was a good man… and a good Pa,” she says as she offers the warmest hug a man can get this side of Kansas. I go to the counter to pay for my drink, but she smiles and says this one is on the house. I wipe my eyes in time to see the beat-up Folgers can beside the register, “Funeral fund for John Jacob Payner.” Names and condolences filled the worn notebook. Chicken scratches from farmers worn out from their day. Beside it, wadded up bills stuffed full inside the can. Maggie takes the contents, and the notes and drops them in a card of her own along with a few dollars from the register. Hands me all of it with a proud grin and says, “He was always a big contributor on the funeral funds. Every day he would stop by the shop and ask for the news.” Screaming into my memory was Maggie’s playful retort, “Not much better than yesterday, but if you don’t wipe your feet next time, I’ll be adding a headline.”

Pa would sometimes purposely rub his boot in a pile of dirt if he saw her mopping the floor and he was sure to leave a big print right next to the door. I instinctively turned to look for it, knowing it wouldn’t be there, but the memory gave me peace. The old men in the corner were still there sipping coffee. Newer generations had been added to their numbers, and some were distinctly missing – including Pa.

The farm would be going for sale and that part stung deep as I had walked out of it for the last time. I knew the new owners were generational farmers and all would be in good hands, but the memories would not be available to access so quickly. But Maggie’s, and her Dr. Pepper, would be there when I came through tomorrow. In that small and poignant moment, with Maggie’s arm around my shoulder and my free Dr. Pepper chilling in my hand, I thanked God for Maggie’s. And I wondered to myself how much longer she would be here, and how much longer I could enjoy a Dr. Pepper from the cooler, and in turn, the memory of Pa.

The world is changing in ways owners like Maggie can’t ignore anymore. Federal and state regulations, and national brands will be forcing Maggie toward technology that will cost her more than she wants; not in dollars, but in time. I’ve been in dozens of stores like Maggie’s. They spend every free moment building relationships with their customers. Vendors quietly drive in during moments like the one above with John’s grandson. They replace goods on her shelves. They tip their hat at Maggie on their way out and Maggie doesn’t mind it at all. They’d settle up later if she didn’t want it. She isn’t worried about MAXIMIZING profit so long as she has enough for her needs. Maggie is building something completely different here. Small businesses make up nearly 44% of America’s gross domestic product, and technology would be foolish to ignore her value – because Dr. Pepper tastes different here.