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| An alternate universe in a Big Box |
“I’ll go,” I volunteer, visions of faucets and nuts and
bolts and piping running through my head.
“But I can go if you - -“
“Nope,” I say quickly.
“I’ll do it.”
At first my husband seems a little perturbed but I’m
grinning, not rolling my eyes.
“Ah,” he says.
“You’re going to look for sheep things.”
I have an on-going desire to make lawn sheep.
“No, I just like to look,” I say.
“For what?” he asks, but he knows.
I just like to look.
Well, and maybe fantasize a little.
I’m not a handywoman, per se, although I do have my own tool
chest and I did just take apart the stopper in my sink so I could better clean
out the drain. Oh, and I built the
shelves in my office. But my fascination
with hardware stores isn’t practical, it’s creative.
Growing up, there weren’t the big box hardware/supply
stores. There was the neighborhood
hardware store, Rea’s, an odd mix of small appliances, giftware, and the little
pieces that one forgets, loses, or breaks during home repair projects. Most of the people who went to Rea’s, my
father included, entered in a dark mood, stomping or impatiently striding,
muttering a string a curse words as they sorted through bolts and washers in
the palms of their work dirtied hands. I
didn’t go to Rea’s with my father. Since
it was in the closest shopping center, I would go with my mother to look at the
collection of tiny ceramic animals. I
was particularly fascinated with the cocker spaniel series, but I’d also look
at the horses (not as good as the Breyer series), the miniscule ceramic mice,
and peruse the other creatures. It was
like a glossy, humane pet shop.
My real fascination with hardware/supply stores happened
when I went with my friend and his dad to the lumber yard to get the supplies
to build an aviary. It was out of our
isolated community, which made it an adventure in itself. Then I entered the warehouse which smelled of
sawdust and there were stacks of timber and plywood and particle board. There was also cement board, drywall, and
chicken wire. These were the ingredients
for an aviary, a tree house, a real house, a mansion.
I was in awe.
This is where one acquired the materials to make Significant
Things, Big Things, things that were more substantial than pottery or beaded
jewelry. I could walk into things built
from these materials. I could stand or
ride or climb on things built from these materials. I could lose a finger
building these things.
That was exciting.
When the big box hardware/supply stores finally arrived, it
was an entirely new experience. I
ignored the cabinetry, carpet and bath sections. I wandered up and down the aisles spellbound
by shiny metals, interesting tubing, tubs of mysterious substances. I intentionally ignored the pricing
labels. I didn’t want to know what these
things were, their true purpose. I just
wanted to enjoy the shapes and textures, my mind arranging them into
supernatural creatures or surreal structures.
It changed a little when I became a homeowner. Going to the big box stores was like going on
a quest not for redecorating, but for repairing material. I learned about joint compound, various
caulks, and types of piping. But, still I
paused in front of interesting objects.
Oooh! Shiny Mylar
arms and legs for robots, like something from the older Dr. Who shows.
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| Wire crowns? Dog bone sculpture? |
“Why are you looking at air ducts?” my husband asked, having
found me after I’d meandered off on my own.
We’ve purchased cabinets and sinks, flooring and gallons of
paint, shelving and sprinkler parts along with all the implements that go with
them. On one hand, I gained knowledge of
home maintenance. On the other hand, the
mystery faded. It was like learning that
a lover’s intriguing scar was caused by a trip on the sidewalk.
I started making trips to the hardware store on my own to
preserve my innocence. I’d get what we
needed, then lose track of time as I wandered the warren of aisles, hurrying
away when a sales assistant approached me. With their brightly colored aprons,
they reminded me of the cards sent out by the Red Queen.
Either through education or clearly marked boxes I can’t
speculate any more. I know about saw
blades, the screens for florescent light boxes, and copper piping. I stood in the faucet aisle staring at the
dozens of different kitchen faucets, debating if brushed nickel was outdated or
not.
What does it
matter? Get the best price for the most
durable.
“Where. Are. We. Go. Ing,” a metallic voice beckoned from
one of the aisles.
I glanced over and saw a young girl waving the corrugated
tubing on her arms. She lowered her arms
and the tubes unfolded like a Mylar caterpillar. She smiled up at her dad.
I grinned. The magic
returned. How could I remain callous in Wonderland?
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