The Territorial

In the valley, where the river ran lazily, and the oaks stood proud, Miss Hattie’s general store was the heart of town. Folks came for flour, nails, and gossip, but lately, they’d been hauling in catalogs, ordering gadgets and gewgaws nobody needed.

Hattie, her braid as gray as storm clouds, shook her head. “Most folks are weird in their ways because they’re mixed up in their excesses and waste,” she’d say, ringin’ up another shipment of battery-powered doodads.

Young Caleb, sixteen and restless, was the worst of them. He’d saved his chore money for a shiny new phone, the kind with more apps than stars in the sky, and when it arrived, he spent hours swiping, ignoring his chores and the sweet hum of the Hollow’s evenings.

His ma, Clara, fretted, “That boy’s lost in a screen, Hattie. Ain’t himself no more.”

Hattie, wise as the river, called Caleb to the store. “Help me clear the backroom,” she said, pointing to boxes of unsold junk, plastic toys, electric can openers, and sequined hats nobody bought.

Caleb grumbled but got to work, hauling crates under Hattie’s watchful eye. As they sorted, she told him about her pa’s saying, “A fence don’t stand straighter with more nails—just the right ones, drove true.”

Caleb snorted, “What’s that got to do with this junk?”

“Everything,” Hattie said. “Folks pile up wants, thinking it’ll make them happy. But all that excess just muddies the soul. Look at you, chasing that phone like it’ll grow you wings.”

Caleb blushed, thinking of the chores he’d skipped.

Hattie handed him a broom. “Clear what don’t serve you, boy.”

By dusk, the backroom was tidy, and Caleb felt lighter, like he’d swept out more than dust. Hattie gave him an old pocketknife.

“That’s worth more than your gadgets,” she said. “It’s true to its purpose.”

Caleb took her words to heart. He sold his phone at the county fair, using the money to fix his ma’s porch swing.

That night, he sat with her, listening to crickets instead of scrolling. Word spread, and folks in the Hollow started clearing their own clutter, donating unused trinkets, trading excess for time with kin.

At Hattie’s store, the catalog orders slowed, and laughter filled the air again. As fireflies lit the dusk, Caleb whittled a stick with his new knife, smiling.

“Reckon simple’s enough,” he told Hattie.

She nodded. “Always was, boy. Always will be.”

In the valley, where the river ran lazily, and the oaks stood proud, Miss Hattie’s general store was the heart of town. Folks came for flour, nails, and gossip, but lately, they’d been hauling in catalogs, ordering gadgets and gewgaws nobody needed.

Hattie, her braid as gray as storm clouds, shook her head. “Most folks are weird in their ways because they’re mixed up in their excesses and waste,” she’d say, ringin’ up another shipment of battery-powered doodads.

Young Caleb, sixteen and restless, was the worst of them. He’d saved his chore money for a shiny new phone, the kind with more apps than stars in the sky, and when it arrived, he spent hours swiping, ignoring his chores and the sweet hum of the Hollow’s evenings.

His ma, Clara, fretted, “That boy’s lost in a screen, Hattie. Ain’t himself no more.”

Hattie, wise as the river, called Caleb to the store. “Help me clear the backroom,” she said, pointing to boxes of unsold junk, plastic toys, electric can openers, and sequined hats nobody bought.

Caleb grumbled but got to work, hauling crates under Hattie’s watchful eye. As they sorted, she told him about her pa’s saying, “A fence don’t stand straighter with more nails—just the right ones, drove true.”

Caleb snorted, “What’s that got to do with this junk?”

“Everything,” Hattie said. “Folks pile up wants, thinking it’ll make them happy. But all that excess just muddies the soul. Look at you, chasing that phone like it’ll grow you wings.”

Caleb blushed, thinking of the chores he’d skipped.

Hattie handed him a broom. “Clear what don’t serve you, boy.”

By dusk, the backroom was tidy, and Caleb felt lighter, like he’d swept out more than dust. Hattie gave him an old pocketknife.

“That’s worth more than your gadgets,” she said. “It’s true to its purpose.”

Caleb took her words to heart. He sold his phone at the county fair, using the money to fix his ma’s porch swing.

That night, he sat with her, listening to crickets instead of scrolling. Word spread, and folks in the Hollow started clearing their own clutter, donating unused trinkets, trading excess for time with kin.

At Hattie’s store, the catalog orders slowed, and laughter filled the air again. As fireflies lit the dusk, Caleb whittled a stick with his new knife, smiling.

“Reckon simple’s enough,” he told Hattie.

She nodded. “Always was, boy. Always will be.”