Living in a small town has its perks, but there are definitely some drawbacks. Take my time in Lewistown, Montana, for example. I went through my first divorce there, and since Montana is a no-fault state, as long as everything was worked out, signed, and submitted, neither party had to show up in court. I actually found out it was finalized when the judge stopped by my lunch counter for coffee and pie. As a joke, he said that since he was on “court business,” I had to buy. I didn’t agree, but somehow, I still ended up paying for his coffee and pie.
One thing about small towns—people know everything about each other. They also take a lot of pride in their community and don’t take kindly to outsiders badmouthing it. Another hallmark of small-town life is local etiquette. In Wyoming and Montana, if you’re driving on a rural road and pass a local, you give a little wave from the top of the steering wheel. It’s a small thing, something outsiders wouldn’t even notice, but it’s important for keeping that sense of community strong.
When an outsider comes to town, everyone knows right away. If they’re from a big city, they really stand out. Woolworth, where I worked, had over 5,000 stores, so it was organized into a tiered structure. The lowest level was the district, and my District Manager, Jim Kittle, was an astute businessman who ran an effective and successful operation. Above him was the Regional Office in Burlingame, California, overseeing hundreds of stores across multiple states. At the very top was the Executive Office in New York City, housed in the historic Woolworth Building. Lewistown’s store was small—barely a blip on the radar. So, when someone from outside the district came to visit, it was a big deal.
In most businesses, moving up the ladder takes a mix of skill, luck, and networking. As they say, “It’s not what you know, but who you know.” Over the years at Woolworth, I had a few key contacts who helped me out. One of them was Joe Aquila, a softlines buyer from the regional office. He took a liking to me and always had my back. One day, he decided to visit some of the bigger cities in Montana and, to my surprise, added Lewistown to his itinerary. My bookkeeper hadn’t seen anyone from the regional office in over twenty years, so this was a big event. Joe spent the afternoon and the next morning in the store, giving suggestions and pushing for better placement of his merchandise. It was a fun visit, but taking him around downtown was a bit of a culture shock—for both him and Lewistown.
Joe was originally from New York, and a small western town, over a hundred miles from the next big city, was definitely out of his comfort zone. His way of speaking and carrying himself was different from what folks in Lewistown were used to. He wasn’t rude, just direct and a little brash, which threw people off. The real kicker, though, was dinner. I wanted to take him to the best spot in town, so I made reservations at The Mercantile, a top-tier steakhouse. I knew we’d be the talk of the town when his meal arrived. Instead of steak, he ordered spaghetti. Then, to top it off, he tucked his napkin into his collar like a bib and spread it across his chest. It might’ve been practical for spaghetti, but in Montana, I’d never seen anyone do that at a nice restaurant. People talked about it for weeks. I had to explain why I’d brought this New York outsider to town, only for him to order spaghetti at a steakhouse. They gave me a hard time about it for ages.
Joe remained a good friend and ally, but he never made it back to Lewistown. As far as I know, he was the last person from the regional or executive office to visit before the store closed in the ‘90s.
Edited for clarity and grammar using AI. – Randy