English Original
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.
中文翻译
令人痛心的谣言被证实了：自1898年起就成为缅因州奥罗诺市中心标志的帕克五金店，即将关门。
消息迅速传开。当地居民恳求、盘问、哀求店主林，但都无济于事。经营一家小型家族五金店已无利可图。全镇的喜爱，不足以让它战胜通往班戈路上那些折扣丰厚的巨型仓储式商店。
我是涌入帕克店的人群之一。橱窗上的蜡字逐日从“全场八折”变为“七折”、“六折”……如同遭受千刀万剐，直到最后只剩下灯座和门把手。
看着一家五金店消失是件难受的事。五金店很特别。它出售的工具让我们得以沉溺于修修补补的习惯、动手能力和创造力，并在此过程中按照我们的喜好改善身边环境。没有什么比给一面斑驳的墙刷上新漆，或者仅凭转动螺丝刀的知识就装好一把新锁更令人满足的了。只需投入少量的金钱和时间，五金店就能带来成倍的满足感回报。
愤世嫉俗者可能会说，在那些占地面积以英亩计的大型仓储店也能达到同样的目的。嗯，也许有时可以，但肯定不总是如此。而且，在这种“荒原”中感到被遗弃的可能性很高。
我记得有一次，我在班戈一家五金“堡垒”的货架间翻找一种帕克店没有的无线门铃。我找到了东西，但不理解包装上的说明：“红灯显示电池状态。”我看到一位穿着鲜艳围裙的店员。
“打扰一下，”我拿着商品说，“我好像找不到那个红灯。”那人接过包装，看了看，然后把它塞回我手里，说了句“我也找不到”，就走开了。
我将此与我在帕克店的日常经历对比。我会捧着一堆看起来高深莫测的金属和塑料零件走进店里。
“林，”我会把东西递到他面前恳求道，“你能不能……拜托……我不知道……你觉得……？”比说一句“小红灯”还快，林就会行动起来。我们一起深入店里某个兼收并蓄的角落，混合、匹配、测量，直到解决方案像神灯精灵一样出现在我眼前。
在帕克店购物更贵吗？对于吹雪机或链锯这样的大件商品，是的。但其他方面，不。我可以只买一颗螺丝，它会被精心装进小袋，只收五分钱——附带的愉快交谈免费。
在仓储店，我别无选择，只能买一盒一百颗的螺丝，并且如果幸运的话，在收银台听到那句千篇一律的告诫：“祝您有美好的一天。”
但我不想被指示去拥有美好的一天。当我只需一颗螺丝时，我也不想要一盒一百颗的，也不想被告知要等待，因为“同事”马上就来。我只想知道那个小红灯在哪里。现在帕克店不在了，我意识到我永远也不会知道了。