Photographs by Terra Fondriest | Story by Robin Seymore
Every Wednesday, Hudson’s Supermarket in Harrison, Arkansas, hosts Banana Day, where bananas sell for 19 cents a pound and people come from far and wide to greet neighbors and get a deal. Due to COVID-19, Hudson’s had to cancel its 100th Anniversary Celebration this fall. Two locals — photographer Terra Fondriest and writer Robin Seymore — put together this tribute to the simple pleasures of a small-town grocery store.
Hudson's is the drive-in theater of grocery stores: old-fashioned, lively, and inarguably one of the local landmarks that gives Harrison, Arkansas, its sense of place. At Hudson's, high schoolers and college students work the cash register and carry groceries to your car, reliably making eye contact and asking how your day is going. The store's canned music is familiar, but sometimes unidentifiable and weird, causing nervous laughter or casual dancing in the aisles. But most importantly, every Wednesday is Banana Day. Bananas cost only 19 cents per pound, and people rush from mountains and valleys to purchase them by the dozen.
As a child in the 1980s, I rode in the backseat of my mom’s pale yellow Chrysler New Yorker, black dog hair from our old lab mix named Annie flying around and sticking to every surface of the car that wasn’t identically-matched pale yellow leather interior. Annie rode shotgun, too old to jump out of the rolled down window, panted, and smiled as she accompanied us on errands.
Mom always took a certain route when she had my sister and me in tow that included “Thrill Hill,” which runs from Bower Avenue down Spring Street all the way to Ridge Avenue. If she was feeling especially frisky, and it was a safe time of day for such mischief, she’d continue the ride from Ridge down to Stephenson Avenue. It’s a simple joy I’ve passed down to my kids, and I predict if they stick around Harrison, they’ll do the same.
Harrison is a town where you make your own fun. While we may not have typical entertainment or shopping options, there are plenty of outdoor activities. The nearby Buffalo National River, which was the first national river, thanks to our beloved late-congressman John Paul Hammerschmidt who worked tirelessly to protect it, provides countless opportunities of leisure. Although it’s about 15 miles south of Harrison, our town hijacks the river’s beauty as if we invented it, hoping it will help hide the ugly history that, unfortunately, is associated with the town of Harrison.*
So maybe it’s my appetite for nostalgia or just my appetite, but Banana Day at Hudson’s Supermarket scratches an itch for not only bananas, but for the feeling of home.
Hudson's Supermarket, a frequent stop on Mom’s list of errands, and thankfully only a short distance from Thrill Hill, is a historical grocery store whose traditions — though threatened by the current pandemic — have sustained us during these hard times.
Banana Day has been around at least 20 years, although no one can recall the exact date. It began because Wednesdays were a slow shopping day due to the timing of the supermarket's newspaper ads. So, then-owner, Doug Hudson, son of the original owner, C.N. Hudson, decided to offer a Wednesday discount on bananas. Why bananas? Partly because Hudson’s could get bananas at a good rate, and partly because it was a wacky idea. According to practically everyone I interviewed, Hudson was a tad zany, but plenty affable. His daughter, Kim Hudson Daiger, said she remembers him making a sign (he made all of Hudson's signs during his time there) that read, "Boneless Bananas." Hudson made national news once during a hospital stay when he crafted another of his famous signs and hung it outside his window. It read: "Help! Bring Pizza!"
Hudson Daiger beamed while speaking of her dad's sense of humor, and, most notably, his ability to make everyone feel significant. Hudson died in 2015. His death is still being mourned by his family and countless others. Luckily for them and for those of us who didn’t get to know him in life, his memory is kept alive in the Hudson's Supermarket culture.
In the supermarket, there is an office area with locking bars that I thought looked like the entrance to a jail when I was a kid. It’s actually a pretty friendly place where management can climb the stairs and see who enters and exits. Hudson would get on the loudspeaker multiple times a day, exuberantly alerting shoppers to store specials. Other times he’d wish a happy birthday to a shopper he knew. Because Hudson was in the Navy, it was tradition that he "piped in" as he called it, saying, "Now hear this! This is your captain speaking!" Then he'd ring a bell or whistle and follow with the announcement. Branch manager John King, who has been a part of the Hudson's Supermarket family since 1971, continues this custom today.
Terra Fondriest and I met at Hudson's several Wednesdays over this past summer, awkwardly introducing ourselves to masked employees and shoppers, learning exactly how difficult it can be to express yourself through a thin face covering. Gradually, we got our elevator speech down, allowing us to relate to people faster and have some pretty meaningful exchanges.
One particularly meaningful trip was to meet the banana truck at 3 a.m. (It’s not really a banana truck, but I’d venture to guess we both imagined something other than a fancy 18-wheeled refrigerated truck expertly backing into the loading dock to deliver pallets of bananas.) After produce manager Ronnie Deakins realized Fondriest and I might benefit from a pot or two of coffee at that hour, we easily found a new friendship.
Deakins has worked for Hudson’s more years than he appears to have lived. He decided long ago that he wanted to find a job he loves and keep it. He didn’t want to move around, chasing more money and less stress. He may have bad days, but I doubt he’d tell anyone. If there’s ever been a Hudson’s sage, Deakins is it. He can get a read on a person in a snap. After only a few minutes, he’d accurately guessed what kind of cars Terra and I drive. While Deakins may not be the demanding kind of boss, he is a man that makes you want to do your best. By the end of his shift, I was unintentionally stocking potatoes.
When I need an answer to one of life’s difficult questions, I’ll probably go meet the banana truck again and work for coffee while Deakins gives me the answer, without me having to ask the question.
Driving east from my house, or wherever you come from to arrive at 609 N. Main St., it’s impossible to not marvel at the Hudson's sign — a giant bull, which was repurposed in the 1980s from a steakhouse in nearby Branson, Missouri. The designer and creator of the sign was Leland Burnett, who made many unique signs for Branson theatres and businesses. Burnett's son-in-law, Harold Bundy, recounted this to me as Deakins picked through Bundy's homegrown tomatoes he'd brought to sell. For many years after the colossal bull sign was installed — which must have been a sight to behold being delivered on our narrow two-lane Main Street — Hudson’s advertised its weekly specials ending with a spirited, "And that's no bull!"
Fondriest and I have come to appreciate that Hudson's is a welcome constant in an increasingly protean landscape. The music, more accurately "Muzak," varies depending on what time of day you shop. Whether "Ballroom Blitz" by Sweet is playing at 7 a.m. or "Cool It Now" by New Edition plays at 9 p.m., somehow, it's comforting. Just as the music abides, so does Banana Day.
Not to say Hudson's hasn't ever had to adapt. In 1961, a punishing flood forced it to relocate from the bustling Harrison Square where it operated since 1920 to a quieter Main Street, where it remains today. Memorably, after the '61 flood obliterated 95% of the downtown store, Hudson wrote "SMILE" on the broken window of the storefront. Still today, townspeople fondly recollect that simple suggestion.
Fifty-nine years later, due to COVID-19, Hudson's has acclimated once again. Sanitizing multiple times a day, installing fiberglass barriers at each cashier station, and ensuring shoppers maintain distance from one another seemed overly cautious less than a year ago; now it’s fundamental. Not to mention keeping cleaning supplies in stock while maintaining affordable prices. Additionally — and sadly — Hudson's management was compelled to cancel the 100th Anniversary Celebration, which was planned for early autumn.
Since March 9, 2020, there have been many changes at Hudson’s, according to manager Mark Pahl. Out of the approximately 40,000 items Hudson’s normally orders, about 40% of those products cannot be procured. "A lot of the problem is packaging. They have the product, but nothing to put it in," Pahl says. Another change Pahl indicated since the pandemic is Hudson's weekly orders of bananas has decreased by around 22 cases. He suspects that's due to consumers, especially senior citizens, not getting out as much. It's definitely not a reflection of a price increase. Hudson's has honored the 19 cents per pound price since the inception of Banana Day, despite a significantly exponential increase in their wholesale cost.
Data USA lists Harrison as having a 22% poverty rate. Our region certainly isn’t known for its vast economic opportunities. Value is imperative in grocery shopping; friendliness is a welcome bonus. So to offer bananas, undoubtedly the cheeriest fruit, at a deep discount, seems appropriate.
As Fondriest and I wrapped up our final Banana Day interviews at Hudson's, we spotted a grandma-granddaughter duo, shopping together, wearing matching yellow (what else?) T-shirts. As they headed to their car with their bananas, a man in scrubs, who was in line to pay for his lunch, noticed the grandmother had dropped her debit card and chased after her to return it. I had thought earlier in the day that masks made interviewing people much more challenging. Personality gets hidden when you can't see a person's whole expression; words are muffled; emphasis isn't communicated; body language doesn't translate when people are carrying groceries. I was so glad we finished the day witnessing an act of humanity that didn't require spoken words.
Like that simple act, Hudson's has an unequivocal spirit. From the zany signs and traditions that help build community, to buying tomatoes directly from local farmers and hollering happy birthdays from above, the grocery store that feels more like a family reunion will surely last another hundred years.
* a note from The Bitter Southerner: As Terra Fondriest and Robin Seymore were working on this piece, a viral YouTube video reinforced a long held narrative that Harrison, Arkansas, is “The Most Racist Town in America.” As we considered whether or not to continue with this story, Fondriest responded to us with this note: Any person could look up the history of Harrison and see its racist past, its ties to the Klan, its billboards. It's not anything new. I just don't believe that this is something we need to give praise to by shunning the good stories because of the bad.
The uprisings last summer (and last week’s election) only amplified something that has always been true: Our nation is deeply divided and has a deeply racist identity that goes well beyond the little town of Harrison. The stories told about “those other people” are rarely the whole story. Our work at The Bitter Southerner has always been to tell the story of the whole South, to challenge stereotypes, shine light on the good while not sugar-coating the bad, and to help others really see and appreciate the quirky, beautiful, people in the communities we know, love, and choose to call home.
Terra Fondriest is a documentary photographer living in the Ozarks of Arkansas with her husband and two children. After halting her former work life as a wildland firefighter, she began her journey as a mother in 2011 and started documenting her growing family at their remote home in the hills. Her photography has slowly evolved into the exploration of the everyday life around her in a project called Ozark Life.
Robin Seymore is a graphic designer/aspiring bookkeeper/freelance writer in Harrison, Arkansas, who enjoys collaborating with photographers to tell stories.
