“Welcome to Dream Hardware, the stuff of life.”
The congenial man in the logo’d polo shirt practically sings the company name and motto, then fairly bows me into the store.
Despite the friendly greeting, I enter with a degree of hesitation. This has to be a new store. I wasn’t aware that we had a hardware store in the neighborhood. I’m not complaining. It’s closer than the Walmart to which I had been headed before a detour sent me down an unfamiliar street.
Dream Hardware must be part of a big chain to be open this late on a weekday. My first lucky break of the night. I don’t normally run errands at this hour, but here it is Halloween and me with a porch light out and not a spare bulb in the house. At least I hope it’s just the bulb and not the light fixture itself. If that’s broken, it’ll be out until I can find an electrician. I don’t know how to change out a light fixture.
Now if Jeff were still with me… I find myself sighing. Well, he’s not, I tell myself, so you’ll just have to cope with home repair issue yourself.
Now, where would the lighting department be? I start down the center aisle.
“Can I help you find something?” asks the helpful hardware guy.
I surprise myself by answering, “Oh, no, thanks. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I’ll just browse if it’s all right.”
“Be my guest,” he replies. “But if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.
Don’t know what I want? What am I talking about? I came in for a light bulb. But I do want to browse. There’s something appealing about the store. Maybe it’s the floors. They look like marble, although they couldn’t possibly be; too expensive. Must be some new-fangled laminate. Or, maybe it’s the lighting. Neither a harsh yellow incandescent or a cool blue fluorescent, it has an almost rosy glow. A stroke of inspired marketing, it has me feeling relaxed, comfortable, unhurried.
Atop the clean white enameled shelving units that line the side aisles, blue oval signs denote the different departments in white flowing script. More marketing is at work here, I presume, as the signs don’t read the expected “Plumbing,” “Electrical,” “Lumber,” and so forth. Instead there’s departments like “Bright Ideas,” “Happy Home” and the one to my immediate right, “Faithful Companion.” I peek down that aisle. “Faithful Companion” – oh, I get it. It’s the pet supplies aisle, for at the head of it are dog and cat carriers and kennels, electronic fencing supplies, followed by bird and hamster cages, and the like. Curious, though – at the end of the aisle it appears they’ve stocked walking canes and walkers, reading glasses, and tea cozies?
Maybe light bulbs are in “Happy Home.” A home can’t be happy if it’s dark, now can it? But no, this Happy Home department stocks coffeemakers and tea pots, mixers and bakeware, waffle irons. Then there are board games like Monopoly, Scrabble and Candyland; croquette and badminton sets, pool toys. I linger a little too long, flashing back to Sunday morning breakfasts. Dad, who worked nine to nine six days a week, would on Sunday man the stove, whipping up stacks of pancakes and brewing a big pot of coffee, all of which would be consumed in a leisurely fashion throughout a morning of breakfasting with and catching up with us kids. I find myself smiling.
And then there were the Sunday mornings with Jeff early in our relationship: coffee in bed, unhurriedly reading the papers, making love, followed by mimosas and jazz brunches. I feel my smile wilt.
Sunday morning now is a rather humdrum affair: a quick gulp of instant coffee to wash down a slice of toast followed by laundry and chores. Well, no reason why I couldn’t have a little orange juice with that toast, now, is there? And maybe a splash of champagne in that orange juice? And I could fire up the CD player and listen to some tunes while I clean, couldn’t I? You know, on Sunday morning after a hard week of work, I’ve earned and deserve a proper cup of coffee. I may need to come back to this department and pick up that French press.
Well, that decided, it’s back to the problem at hand. Maybe light bulbs are in the Bright Ideas department. After all, isn’t a lit bulb the symbol of a bright idea? But no, no light bulbs here. Instead there are do-it-yourself kits and gadgets, all lighting-related. A flashlight on a flexible neck so you can light something around a corner. How handy! A cap that covers a light switch so it can’t be turned on or off accidentally. How clever! A kit that converts a can light into a pendant light by simply screwing the new fixture into the light bulb socket. Now there’s a bright idea indeed. I hate the can lights in my kitchen, but the remodeler dude that I asked about it said that they couldn’t be changed to the pendant lights that I really want. And here’s a whole box of battery-operated lamps that can be mounted with double-sided tape. Well, there’s at least a temporary solution to my porch light problem. I’ll just stick up one of those over the door!
On my way to the checkout, I’m distracted by one last department: “Dare to Dream.” It seems more art supply than hardware: sketch pads, colored pencils, paint brushes and paints; blank journals and pens. One particular journal catches my eye. It’s more upholstered then bound, being covered in padded pale blue moiré silk. I think about how I used to spend my mornings, before Jeff. Mornings were my quiet time, my “me time,” when I would grab a few minutes before the day got busy to write in my journal. Often, I’d find myself doing a kind of reality check, to make sure that what I was doing was what I wanted to be doing. When did I stop, and why? Did I just get so busy with Jeff, making sure that he had an ironed shirt or a good breakfast or any number of things that he could have gotten for himself, that I stopped connecting with myself?
The helpful hardware guy appears at my elbow. “Find what you want?” he asks.
I look down to find a shopping basket looped around my arm although I don’t remember having picked one up. In it are the French press, the can-light conversion kit, the stick-up light, the blue silk journal, and a beautiful pearlescent fountain pen, to boot.
I smile. “I believe I did.”
