I remember the first time I walked into a hardware store.
Okay, maybe not REALLY the first time, but the first time I went in there for something as an adult. The first time I walked into a hardware store with purpose, with the intent of buying a thing and using it to fix or build another thing, the first time I walked into a hardware store with boots on my feet and a few bucks in my pocket and a pickup out in the parking lot on a cold fall morning.
I remember how hardware stores were, then. You'd walk in and there'd be a buncha old junk behind the counter, old scythe blades and gears and esoteric bits and pieces of equipment and machinery you could never, in your ignorance, ever hope to understand. The lights, yellow and bright, showed you a narrow path through the clutter, into the back of the aisles where all the good stuff was. Invariably, there'd be an old guy with a canvas apron, a pair of glasses, and if you're lucky, a big white beard. That beard is where Hardware Joe kept much of his knowledge and power.
Hardware Joe. Every small town had a guy named Hardware Joe. He knew everything. He knew every thread pattern the world over, without consulting a manual. He knew where the galvanized nails were, and the brass flathead screws, and the 1/16" flat steel stock- over there, next to those rebars.
Hardware Joe couldn't remember your name, but he could remember every Craftsman catalog going back to 1970.
I mean, this guy had it all. The wisdom, the confidence, the voice, the beard. Everybody had a quiet reverence for Hardware Joe.
Then came Walmart.
With it came the defeat of the local hardware store. There was no way Joe could compete with a store selling stuff for half as much- even if it was at half the quality. Slowly, Joe was replaced with younger guys, guys with nametags- Joe never had a nametag- tags with names like "Trevor" and "Terry" and for god's sake, "Tracy". I mean, I can't ask a dude named Tracy, a dude 10 years younger than me no less, where the bronze stock is or if I can use this solder for a material other than copper. I just can't, and even if I could, Tracy doesn't know. Tracy knows nothing of the mysterious world of Craftsman catalogs and wood dust. He doesn't care. He wants to get off work, get in his Miata, go home and play Warcraft.
Fuck you, Tracy.
Okay, maybe not REALLY the first time, but the first time I went in there for something as an adult. The first time I walked into a hardware store with purpose, with the intent of buying a thing and using it to fix or build another thing, the first time I walked into a hardware store with boots on my feet and a few bucks in my pocket and a pickup out in the parking lot on a cold fall morning.
I remember how hardware stores were, then. You'd walk in and there'd be a buncha old junk behind the counter, old scythe blades and gears and esoteric bits and pieces of equipment and machinery you could never, in your ignorance, ever hope to understand. The lights, yellow and bright, showed you a narrow path through the clutter, into the back of the aisles where all the good stuff was. Invariably, there'd be an old guy with a canvas apron, a pair of glasses, and if you're lucky, a big white beard. That beard is where Hardware Joe kept much of his knowledge and power.
Hardware Joe. Every small town had a guy named Hardware Joe. He knew everything. He knew every thread pattern the world over, without consulting a manual. He knew where the galvanized nails were, and the brass flathead screws, and the 1/16" flat steel stock- over there, next to those rebars.
Hardware Joe couldn't remember your name, but he could remember every Craftsman catalog going back to 1970.
I mean, this guy had it all. The wisdom, the confidence, the voice, the beard. Everybody had a quiet reverence for Hardware Joe.
Then came Walmart.
With it came the defeat of the local hardware store. There was no way Joe could compete with a store selling stuff for half as much- even if it was at half the quality. Slowly, Joe was replaced with younger guys, guys with nametags- Joe never had a nametag- tags with names like "Trevor" and "Terry" and for god's sake, "Tracy". I mean, I can't ask a dude named Tracy, a dude 10 years younger than me no less, where the bronze stock is or if I can use this solder for a material other than copper. I just can't, and even if I could, Tracy doesn't know. Tracy knows nothing of the mysterious world of Craftsman catalogs and wood dust. He doesn't care. He wants to get off work, get in his Miata, go home and play Warcraft.
Fuck you, Tracy.
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