What I miss about Park鈥檚 Hardware
The rumor proved all too bitterly true: Park鈥檚 Hardware, a downtown institution of Orono, Maine, since 1898, would be closing.
Word spread quickly. Locals cajoled, cross-examined, and pleaded with Lin, the owner of the store, to no avail. Running a small, local, family-owned hardware business was no longer a profitmaker. The town鈥檚 affection for Park鈥檚 Hardware was just not enough to allow it to prevail against the giant warehouse stores that loomed, discount-laden, down the road in Bangor.
I was one member of the milling masses that began to filter through Park鈥檚 as, day by day, the wax lettering on the front window changed from 鈥�20% OFF EVERYTHING鈥� to 鈥�30%,鈥� 鈥�40%,鈥� and on and on, like the death of a thousand cuts until the only things left were the light sockets and doorknobs.
It鈥檚 a difficult thing to see a hardware store go. A hardware store is special because it sells the things that allow us to indulge our tinkering habits, can-do-it-ness, and creativity, and in the process improve our immediate surroundings to suit our tastes. There are few things more satisfying than a new coat of paint on a weary wall, or a new lock set requiring only the knowledge of how to spin a screwdriver. From such a small investment of cash and time, a hardware store affords one a wholesale return of satisfaction.
The cynic might argue that one can accomplish the same end by shopping at the big-box warehouses whose footprints are measured not in square feet, but acres. Well, maybe sometimes, but certainly not always. And the likelihood of feeling forsaken in such a wasteland is high.聽
I recall the time I was rummaging in one of the aisles of a Bangor hardware fortress for a wireless door chime that Park鈥檚 didn鈥檛 carry. I found the thing, but didn鈥檛 understand the following gloss on the package: 鈥淩ed light indicates condition of battery.鈥� I spotted a clerk in a brightly colored apron.聽
鈥淓xcuse me,鈥� I said, holding the item out, 鈥淚 can鈥檛 seem to find the red light.鈥� The man took the package, examined it, and, plopping it back in my hand, said, 鈥淣either can I,鈥� before he walked away.
I contrast this experience with one I routinely had at Park鈥檚, in which I would walk into the store holding a pile of arcane-looking metal and plastic pieces in my cupped hands.聽
鈥淟in,鈥� I鈥檇 plead as I held out the offering before him, 鈥渃an you ... please ... I don鈥檛 know ... do you think鈥�?鈥� And quicker than one could say, 鈥渓ittle red light,鈥� Lin would spring into action and together we鈥檇 voyage off into one of the eclectic recesses of the store to mix and match and measure until the solution precipitated before my eyes like a genie emerging from a lamp.
Was it more expensive to shop at Park鈥檚 as opposed to a warehouse? In one way, yes 鈥� if I intended to buy a big-ticket item like a snowblower or chain saw. But otherwise, no: I could buy a single screw at Park鈥檚, and have it lovingly deposited in a little bag, for a nickel 鈥� no charge for the accompanying pleasant conversation.聽
At a warehouse I had no choice but to buy a box of a hundred screws, and, if I were fortunate, receive at the cash register the stock admonition: 鈥淗ave a nice day.鈥�
But I don鈥檛 want to be directed to have a nice day. Nor do I want a box of a hundred screws when all I need is one, nor told to wait because an 鈥渁ssociate鈥� would be with me shortly.
I just want to know the location of the little red light, and now that Park鈥檚 is gone, I realize that I never will.
