When I arrived in Almonte in 1976 as a young lawyer, my office was on the second floor at 74 Mill Street, formerly occupied by Raymond A. Jamieson, QC. His longtime legal assistant, Mrs. Evelyn Barker, remained during the transition, a steady presence. Mr. Jamieson had just retired after an impressive 54-year career, having been called to the bar at Osgoode Hall in 1921.

Across the street, just up from where the new post office now stands, was an old building owned by Johnnie Graham, Editor and Publisher of The Almonte Gazette. Naturally, I subscribed, though I seldom found occasion to use it. Once, during a downturn in the 1990s, I placed a modest advertisement for my law practice—something Mr. Jamieson had routinely done. I quickly discovered, however, that advertising has little effect in hard times. As ever, nothing rivals word of mouth, for good or for ill.

Eventually the Gazette was sold, I believe, to a consortium of rural newspapers headquartered in Toronto. Not long afterward, I was consulted by Louis Irwin—who, incidentally, later spirited the Elizabeth Kelly Library Foundation—about acquiring the paper. At his instruction, I contacted the new owners to express interest in buying it. Soon after, I received a call from a man in Toronto who, in crisp tones, informed me: “Mr. Chapman, there is something I think you ought to know: we’re in the business of acquisition, not disposition.” And that was that.

I recalled that moment today while dealing with the sale of my Evo Latitude tricycle. At my partner’s suggestion, I had contacted the editors of The Millstone, our local electronic paper, and asked them to publish a notice in the Classified Ads. That was only yesterday. Since late last evening—and continuing into this morning—the phone has not stopped ringing. The interest has been remarkable. Indeed, as I write, scarcely twenty-four hours after placing the ad, the trike is sold. Regrettably, I’ve had to notify several hopeful callers of the swift outcome.

What struck me about this otherwise modest transaction was how clearly it brought to mind the rhythms and challenges of retail life. As a professional, I had largely escaped such dilemmas. My practice did not involve competition in the traditional sense. I was never troubled by overlapping appointments. And payment was more of a formality, usually addressed in advance by that comfortable euphemism, the “retainer.”

But last night I tossed and turned. The first person to call was not the first I had arranged to meet. When I realized the second caller might arrive first—and might want to buy—I felt I ought to notify the first. At 4:00 a.m., I attempted to message her, only to discover she had a landline. Bell Canada couldn’t leave a message, petty $0.30 charge or not. I couldn’t bring myself to call at that hour, though I later learned she had been awake all night and wouldn’t have minded.

Just as I was drifting off again, a message came from a woman in Montréal—her husband in Almonte was ready to come at once with cash. Meanwhile, someone else had left a message asking to come by at 8:30 a.m. Suddenly I had a line-up.

As it turned out, a gentleman arrived first, cash in hand, and after a brief inspection, the sale was done. I notified the others and asked the editors to remove the ad. Still, the calls kept coming. I was heartened to realize I knew (or at least recognized) most of the callers. Longevity in a community has its benefits.

But the deeper lesson of this episode is that no one’s work—retail, professional, or otherwise—should be underestimated. We’re all susceptible to imagining our burdens to be heavier than others’, our tasks more essential or exhausting. Yet from this small excursion into the world of retail, I gained a new and lasting respect.

The details of life—those seemingly trivial encounters—are often more consequential than we expect. And it has been a very long time since I lost as much sleep over anything quite so minor as this curious adventure in buying and selling.