The rumor proved all too bitterly true: Park's 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, to no avail. Running a small, family-owned hardware business was no longer profitable. The town's affection could not help it prevail against the giant, discount-laden warehouse stores down the road in Bangor.
I was among the crowds that filtered through Park's as the discount signs on the window climbed from "20% OFF" to "30%," "40%," and beyond, until only light sockets and doorknobs remained.
It's difficult to see a hardware store go. Such stores are special. They sell the tools that let us tinker, create, and improve our immediate surroundings. Few things are more satisfying than a new coat of paint on a weary wall or installing a new lock. From a small investment, a hardware store offers a wholesale return of satisfaction.
A cynic might say you can get the same at big-box warehouses measured in acres. Maybe sometimes, but not always. The likelihood of feeling forsaken in such a wasteland is high.
I recall searching a Bangor hardware fortress for a wireless door chime. I found it but was puzzled by the note: "Red light indicates condition of battery." I spotted a clerk.
"Excuse me," I said, "I can't seem to find the red light." The man took the package, examined it, dropped it back in my hand, and said, "Neither can I," before walking away.
I contrast this with my routine at Park's. I'd walk in, cupping a pile of mysterious metal and plastic pieces.
"Lin," I'd plead, holding them out, "can you ... please ... I don't know ... do you think...?" Quicker than saying "little red light," Lin would spring into action. Together, we'd voyage into the store's eclectic recesses to mix, match, and measure until the solution appeared like a genie from a lamp.
Was Park's more expensive? For big items like a snowblower, yes. Otherwise, no. I could buy a single screw, lovingly bagged for a nickel — with pleasant conversation included at no extra charge.
At a warehouse, I had to buy a box of a hundred screws and, if lucky, receive the stock phrase: "Have a nice day."
But I don't want to be directed to have a nice day. I don't want a box of a hundred screws when I need one, nor to be told to wait for an "associate." I just wanted to know where the little red light was. Now that Park's is gone, I realize I never will.