Conners' Hardware

      Somewhere, between the whisper of a heartbeat, and the roar of the oncoming night, is something that takes me to places I can't ever get back to on my own. I don't always have the desire to go to that place... or anywhere else for that matter, but I do. Unlike most dreams that end up nowhere, in the middle of the night, halfway through something else, unfinished, there is one that wraps me in a warm embrace, and puts me in a place so still I can feel the echo of its presence long after I wake. Like a compass, always there to lead me to safe harbor, my spirit guides me to this place often. I like it there, always have.



      Upon entering through one half of the massive French doors, I am struck by the immense space that lies ahead. The silence, once inside, has swallowed up any thoughts I had of why I am really there. My eyes are first drawn to the over sized cash register situated halfway down the service bar, its numbers so large I can read them from where I stand just inside the door. From there, my icy stare is fixed upon what lies above and beyond. It is unlike anything I have ever seen before, or since. Looking up at the ancient drawers that cover one complete side of the store, from ceiling to floor, I am startled by a solitary voice that I can't quite place.



      "Can I help you son. "



      His words fall gently on the uneasy silence of the moment. As he peers out from under his grizzled facade, steel blue eyes staring out from behind tiny rounded spectacles, slid halfway down his nose, quickly move past mine to the skates strung over my left shoulder. Looking closely, politely waiting for me to respond, he then motions me to the door leading to what looks to be a portal to another dimension. With a crooked smile, he speaks to assure me everything will be okay.



      "Follow me; I'll take care of those for you young man. "



      Conner looks like he might be old enough to have sharpened my grandfathers' skates, when he was playing still. Hunched over, from decades of patrolling the creaking wooden floors of this hardware store, he seems almost fossilized to a seven year old kid. I finally gather myself to speak, but he beats me to the punch once more. In a way that is meant to break the ice, ease the tension painted on my face, he speaks once again.



      "You 're K. T. Nicol's grandson aren't you? "  A humble, "yes sir,"  was all I could manage.



      Relieved to have finally broken my silence, slowly, I warm to his presence, and boldly produce my right skate for him to begin sharpening. Conner flips on the sharpener and kindly asks for my other skate.

*



      'How do you like them? "



      Without waiting for my response, he begins to run the blades over the grinder, sparks illuminating the darkened room in a glorious splendor of orange and blue light. At this moment my eyes begin to rubber around the room-, what a wonderful sight to behold. Taking in all its' magnificent decrepitude, I am dumbfounded by the cluttered, ramshackle, appearance of this space. This room is a goldmine for the out of date, forgotten, unusual, and past its' prime tool. They were everywhere. Benches covered with hammers, claws, wire cutters; shelves adorned with boxes of screws, nuts, and bolts. Even a broken plunger, dangling from the ceiling next to a large assortment of saws, was too valuable to be thrown out. At the far end of the room, an old potbelly stove sat dismissively in the corner, having been replaced, but not evicted, by the oil fired furnace that now heats this place. Covered with boxes of discarded fixtures, rope, and chains that seemed to fall from its' top, like water over a rock, it looks to me possessed of some spirit from beyond the realm of possibility. In fact this whole place is starting to really intrigue my sense of adventure. Immediately, I know my return to this place in time is a foregone conclusion. I just don't know how, why, or when. Is there something here amongst this clutter that I must search for? Or is it something to be given up? Not yet having the wisdom, I believe I will continue to enjoy these journeys for what they are. When it is time, it will be revealed to me what purpose there was, if any. Until then, Hook forward to my next visit with Conner.



      Having never before been to such a place, my first visit has made quite an impression on me. This living, breathing, museum of a store, has dug a hole deep into my subconscious; it has come out every so often. Even now, that certain smell, the sound of a creaking wooden floor, the sight of an old cash register at a flea market, will make me seven years old again, back in Conner's hardware. That's okay, I like it there. I go there all the time.