- Joined
- Dec 12, 2014
- Messages
- 364
- Reaction score
- 2
That's pretty funny. Did the guy finally whisper sheepishly, "I mean 18"?
I was referring to my practice of starting my measurements at the one inch mark.
-
Happy May Ray Day! 🌞😎🌻🩳🇩
That's pretty funny. Did the guy finally whisper sheepishly, "I mean 18"?
I was referring to my practice of starting my measurements at the one inch mark.
I remember when I was around 11 years old or so, my dad taking me along to a hardware store. He was a DIYer with a machinist's perfectionist eye. Nothing was ever just "good enough". It had to be exact. Whether digging a trench, framing a wall, shingling a roof, laying a foundation, rebuilding a motor, or sharpening a shovel, he needed the right tool and method for the job. Believe it or not, despite his finicky nature, he was good natured and easy to work with. Having four sons might've been a dream come true for him. (My brothers and I have stories that could prove the opposite.) We were a mini work force that paid our family labouring dues every Saturday, rain, snow or shine. But despite all the chores we were given, I only remember once going on a shopping trip for supplies. My dad drove my mom nuts with his attention to detail. He would plan shopping trips around the most efficient route and order of stops, to save time and gas. I still recall him sitting at the table with a list of different items and musing "Hmm. We'll go to the tractor supply for that lawnmower part first, as it's on the way to..." while my mom would stand at the front door fuming "Can't we just go?!"
I don't remember the order of our shopping day, nor any of the other stops we made. It was just me and my dad. My mom must've had "better things to do" than go to the hardware store. Poor girl. My brothers must've been busy with other things to do than go for a car ride on a Saturday afternoon. Oh yeah, it was a Saturday, so they must've been doing chores! Anyway, it was my first and only trip to the hardware store. An old storefront on a small town main street in Southern Ontario was and still is a quaint and pretty thing to see. Mullioned windows and heavy double doors, hand painted signs and mysterious darkened interior, all beckoned you inside for a slow step back in time. The wood floor had aged to a honey brown patina, and ran in long dimly lit avenues with towering shelves shoved full with boxes and bags with penciled messages. My dad wandered on up ahead of me, but not before mumbling "I love this place. Now this is a real hardware store." The way he whispered it, made me feel like he was sharing some father-son secret, but at 11 years of age I had no idea what he was talking about. He disappeared down a dark canyon with high shelf walls of nuts and bolts, crowbars and cable, fittings and fixtures, while I crept along trying to decipher the strange pencil scribbled hieroglyphics on tattered labels. Eventually we met at the massive counter, where he lingered and talked shop with the cashier.
I have no idea what he bought, but he hummed to himself all the way home.
Many years later I was all grown up, and working for a family in that same small town. She kept her family name, as some married couples do. Her name was familiar to me, but I couldn't figure out why. When I asked her, she said "Oh, you probably remember my dad's place. Did you ever go in the old hardware store on King Street? It was something of a local landmark, so some people say. My dad loved that store."
Just a few years ago I was in an old store on King Street helping my granddaughter pick out and buy a bridesmaid dress. She was so excited to be picking out something so elegant and grownup. While the lady was wrapping up the dress she'd said yes to, I took a step back and took a second long look at the massive counter. I finally realized "I know this place." The old hardware emporium was reborn a bridal boutique. What a strange world.
My darling granddaughter and I both hummed to ourselves all the way home.
I don't remember the order of our shopping day, nor any of the other stops we made. It was just me and my dad. My mom must've had "better things to do" than go to the hardware store. Poor girl. My brothers must've been busy with other things to do than go for a car ride on a Saturday afternoon. Oh yeah, it was a Saturday, so they must've been doing chores! Anyway, it was my first and only trip to the hardware store. An old storefront on a small town main street in Southern Ontario was and still is a quaint and pretty thing to see. Mullioned windows and heavy double doors, hand painted signs and mysterious darkened interior, all beckoned you inside for a slow step back in time. The wood floor had aged to a honey brown patina, and ran in long dimly lit avenues with towering shelves shoved full with boxes and bags with penciled messages. My dad wandered on up ahead of me, but not before mumbling "I love this place. Now this is a real hardware store." The way he whispered it, made me feel like he was sharing some father-son secret, but at 11 years of age I had no idea what he was talking about. He disappeared down a dark canyon with high shelf walls of nuts and bolts, crowbars and cable, fittings and fixtures, while I crept along trying to decipher the strange pencil scribbled hieroglyphics on tattered labels. Eventually we met at the massive counter, where he lingered and talked shop with the cashier.
I have no idea what he bought, but he hummed to himself all the way home.
Many years later I was all grown up, and working for a family in that same small town. She kept her family name, as some married couples do. Her name was familiar to me, but I couldn't figure out why. When I asked her, she said "Oh, you probably remember my dad's place. Did you ever go in the old hardware store on King Street? It was something of a local landmark, so some people say. My dad loved that store."
Just a few years ago I was in an old store on King Street helping my granddaughter pick out and buy a bridesmaid dress. She was so excited to be picking out something so elegant and grownup. While the lady was wrapping up the dress she'd said yes to, I took a step back and took a second long look at the massive counter. I finally realized "I know this place." The old hardware emporium was reborn a bridal boutique. What a strange world.
My darling granddaughter and I both hummed to ourselves all the way home.
Last edited:
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2014
- Messages
- 364
- Reaction score
- 2
Now that's a story with soul.
My dad was an artist, but also an engineer, with an eye for precision when needed and an intuitive "feel" at other times. He loved the old hardware stores with creaky wooden floors and dust on some of the inventory. There is - or was 40 years ago - such a store in Milwaukee, National Hardware. I used to go there just to mosey around the place.
My dad was an artist, but also an engineer, with an eye for precision when needed and an intuitive "feel" at other times. He loved the old hardware stores with creaky wooden floors and dust on some of the inventory. There is - or was 40 years ago - such a store in Milwaukee, National Hardware. I used to go there just to mosey around the place.
- Joined
- Nov 19, 2013
- Messages
- 1,350
- Reaction score
- 342
Odyssey - What a wonderful story and set of memories. Thanks so much for sharing that with us.
Take care and until next time...Be well.
snapper
Take care and until next time...Be well.
snapper
Similar threads
