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The Local Farmers by Jason Martinolich If you asked me what Rouses means to me, I’d

The produce business had high times and low. City Produce weathered the Great Depression, though Anthony learned well the lessons of that hard time in American history. When J.P. died, Anthony Rouse and his cousin, Ciro, took over City Produce. But there was trouble on the horizon. The produce export business slowed as more products began shipping from Mexico. Concurrently, the oil industry in Louisiana was reaching its peak, and Anthony realized that farmhands would have other work options and would soon be in short supply, which would make the company harder yet to keep going. So Ciro started looking far and wide for what could be the family’s next move in the food business, and soon settled on the idea of opening a grocery store in Houma. “They named it Ciro’s because, when you hung the letters on the outside of the store, Ciro’s had fewer letters than Rouse’s,” says Donald. “That’s a true story.” The two put all their money (and a lot of the bank’s money) into this tiny, 7,000-square-foot store, hiring two workers and doing everything else themselves: from stocking merchandise to working the register. Donald joined the company when he was old enough, bagging groceries and rounding up carts out front. When Ciro retired in 1975, Donald bought out Ciro’s interest in the company, and he and his father renamed the store “Rouse’s.” You might have noticed that Rouses stores today lack the apostrophe. The reason is because in those early days, the lightbulb in the punctuation mark kept burning out, and rather than continuing to spend the money fighting a losing battle, Anthony — ever a practical man — decided to take the apostrophe down from the store sign and solve the problem perma nently.

say “family” and “local.” My first real job for Rouses was working as a service clerk, grabbing buggies from the parking lot and stacking them together for the store guests. You’d sweat in the summertime, but it was fun too. Next, I learned how to bag groceries. There was a real art to it: stacking things just so, keeping the cold items together. And they also trained me to use a cash register. When I was a senior in high school, the produce department manager at the store asked me if I would like to work in the produce section. Every Monday, the local farmers came in through the back door of the store, where the cooler and prep room were. “Hey, are you looking for any produce?” they’d say. “This is what I got from my garden today.” There was Mr. Millet with his navels, satsumas and cabbage. Mr. Peltier with all sorts of things. Miss Verdy with crates of eggplant, squash and bell peppers. I’d check, weigh and pay for their deliveries right there at the prep table. Looking back, I realize that the produce department is where I really learned to put a lot of pride in my work, and to respect our local farmers and providers. Mr. Anthony Rouse lived next door to the store. You always knew when he was at work; you’d hear his little hint of a Cajun accent, then he’d come up and take the time to talk to us to see how things were going, to see if we needed anything, to find out what the

Matt Ranatza, 3rd Generation Matt Ranatza is a third-generation farmer from Belle Chasse, Louisiana. In 1937, his grandfather grew the very first Creole tomatoes. Today, the family farm has expanded to include local favorites like cauliflower, cucumbers, squash, zucchini — and of course, Creole tomatoes. We’ve always bought from local farmers. In fact, we have more local produce than any other grocery store in the region, including from longtime family farms like the Ranatzas.

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