“Buy Local

Buy Homemade

Buy from People You Know

Buy from Self-Employed

When you buy from a small business, an actual person dances a little jig at each sale.

Big stores don’t ‘jig’ when they make a sale.

Make someone ‘jig’ today — buy local!”

What a great sign, I thought, as I pulled out my notebook to scribble down the message. I am sure most self-employed people feel the same way. Each time a load of hay drives out of the stack yard, or a load of melons heads to the grocery store, or something we have crafted sells at the local market, you can be sure it makes supper time conversation that night.

I can’t remember how long ago I jotted down the words on that sign, but the sentiment has taken hold in our family vernacular. Such as “I know it’s a couple of dollars more, but it’ll make someone dance a jig” or “I think we just made someone dance a jig.”

I’m often very … um … let’s say frugal with money. So my natural inclination is to go where I can get the best deal — but over time, the personal relationships you make when buying local often turn out to make it a deal that can’t be beat — making us both dance jigs — because it isn’t just money transactions that create jig dancing.

On a recent trip south, a complete stranger made my husband dance an unexpected jig. We had spent a few days in Mexico before deciding to surprise our kids with a couple days at Disneyland. A magical place where adults can relive their childhood, kids can meet their favorite storybook characters and just breathing in the delicious scents seems to debit your bank account.

We have made this trip multiple times with our oldest son — and he knew exactly which land he wanted to visit first and which rides he wanted Fastpasses for. Our youngest son has only been there once, and it was a bit overwhelming to him. He found the kid rides “too dark,” “too loud” and “too scary.” Meanwhile, my oldest just wanted to ride the biggest ones again and again and again. So we decided to divide and conquer.

I headed to the roller coaster with my speed-obsessed boy, while my husband headed out with the stroller to find something “not dark, not loud, not scary” to do. The breeze picked up, and my husband maneuvered the stroller into a side area, and started rummaging around in the bottom of it for sweatshirts.

“Excuse me sir, are you in line for the cookies?” a woman’s voice asked.

My husband looked up to see he had stopped in front of a fresh cookie hut. “Oh, sorry, no,” he said, trying to pull the stroller out of the way. “I didn’t even realize there were cookies there,” he laughed, “but feel free to pick one up for me.”

The lady moved around him, and he finally got the shirts out and had just finished putting one on our son, when a man tapped his shoulder.

“Here ya go. My wife got you a cookie.” The man handed my husband a plate, and then quickly the couple walked away. Leaving my husband holding a giant, warm, chocolate-oozing cookie. As if buying Disney food wasn’t expensive enough, buying it for total strangers? My husband danced a jig the rest of the evening.

A week later we were back home, a little worse for wear as our trip had been maybe packed with a little too much stuff and not enough sleep. We were all sick, and not a tissue in sight. Too soon our noses looked like we were running competition with Rudolph. Then came an Amazon package in the mail. Inside a four-pack of Puffs with lotion — my favorite type of tissue from a friend in North Carolina. Dancing may not cure the common cold — but it put a smile on my face for the rest of the day.

Dancing a jig doesn’t have to be as expensive as a Disneyland cookie. It could be as simple as a letter and stamp. I recently received a letter from a reader in Mt. Vernon that made me “jig” all afternoon.

The writer said he looked forward to reading both my column and “Life on a Ranch” by Chelsea Matthews. He then went on to address my comment that I had always expected “blonde, Pinterest-loving, tractor-driving girls” and instead had loud, messy, adorable boys. In nearly the same issue, Chelsea had been out calving when she came back to a homecooked meal her daughter had found on Pinterest. The reader then suggested that perhaps Chelsea and I do a “kid-swap-camp.” Her kids would become tractor drivers, and mine would learn the cattle side of ag! He closed the letter: “I am anxious for each issue to watch your two families grow through the years to come.”

Think local. Think community. Think about making someone dance a jig.