I hate change.

I hate change unless, of course, it's 10 pounds lost or a new hair color that's nothing short of fabulous. I hate change when I can't see any good in it and when good people get lost in it.

Like my friend, Arthur.

For years, I could count on Arthur, the second of three generations in a family-owned nursery, to make certain that I had a big, beautiful Christmas tree.

Without exception, he made certain, too, that I had it on time, that time being the day before Thanksgiving. Christmas trees, perhaps you've noticed, are mighty scarce before Turkey Day.

But Arthur knew it was important to me - my own privately devised tradition - to have a full, fragrant spruce beautifully decorated on Thanksgiving when I host a large group of family and friends for dinner.

"Boy, it sure was hard this year," he said once, shaking his head of normally disheveled blonde hair. "I had to work hard to get this load of trees here early. But I knew you'd be wanting your tree."

"I knew I could count on you," I replied with a smile because I knew I could.

Another time, he glanced at his watch when I dashed in at 5 p.m. on Wednesday and mumbled, "I've been wondering where you were. Wondered if you were going to make it this year."

"You know you can count on me," I replied because he knew he could.

See, here's the interesting part: I never once called Arthur to place an order and he never once called to ask if I wanted a Christmas tree before Thanksgiving. We had an unspoken agreement and we knew we could count on each other.

That's something in today's world, even among my-word-is-my-bond-and-a-handshake-is-a-done-deal Southerners.

Last year, I picked out my tree after rejecting several that he unbundled. He was patient with the first four rejections, rolled his eyes on the fifth then breathed a quiet sigh of relief when the sixth was perfect. Then Arthur, as usual, made a fresh cut on the bottom with a chain saw and trimmed the lower limbs to make it stand ready.

"I'll deliver it in an hour," he promised.

A short time later, he carried the tree in my house, plopped it into the stand and I cooed gratefully, "Oh, Arthur, thank you so much. You're the best."

"Don't try any of that charm stuff on me," he growled good-naturedly, refusing to smile. "I read your book so I know what you're up to."

I laughed at the fake grumpiness. "But, Arthur, it's true. What on earth would I ever do without you?"

But now I must find out.

Arthur and his family closed the nursery months ago. It was a sad day to see the business started by his dad ended by competition from retail chains that could offer similar products at lower prices.

For years, Arthur and his family had had a successful, thriving business. Like many independent retailers, once the backbone of small-town commerce, Arthur's family fought valiantly to survive but finally strangled in the giants' stronghold.

Their last gasp of breath was heard loudly by people like me who had come to rely on personalized, dependable service.

I hate change.

Especially when good people get lost in it and people like me become lost without the good people who got lost in it.

[Ronda Rich is the author of "What Southern Women Know (That Every Woman Should)" and "My Life In The Pits." She lives in Gainesville, Ga. E-mail her at [email protected].]