Before the big-box stores,
the neighborhood hardware store didn't look like much.
But it felt like it had everything.
The bell over the door rang once as you entered.
The air smelled of oil and dust, paint thinner and rubber.
The smell of work.
Above the counter,
a ceiling fan turned slow and creaked.
Like it had always been there.
The proprietor didn't need a barcode scanner or an aisle map.
He didn't only know the store, he knew you.
Knew your house, too.
Which windows stuck.
What always broke in the winter.
You didn't need the right words.
You could describe it badly and still walk out with the right part.
He'd listen for a second, then disappear down a narrow aisle.
And come back with exactly what you meant.
You weren't just buying an item.
You were buying judgment.
Nothing locked up, no high shelves.
Screws sold by the pound.
Rope cut to length.
Glass cut while you waited.
Many things fixed on the spot.
No need to find someone with a badge or branded vest.
The store was the help.
Time moved differently there.
No self-checkout beeping.
No carts in the way.
If there was any music at all,
it came from a beat up radio in the corner.
You could stand right at the counter and talk.
Sometimes you left with something you didn't know you needed.
Today's big box stores sell products.
The local hardware store solved problems.