The Nuts and Bolts of Norris Hardware
My boys have reached the age where they’ve learned the difficult, but vital, act of telling someone—a friend, a grandfather, an acquaintance—how they feel about them before their paths split in life.
It’s my turn.
In 2003, the movers finished unloading the last box into our two-bedroom, 1950’s house in the Alphabet Streets. I took the endless list of things we needed—brooms, cleaners, nails, a doorbell—and went to Norris Hardware.
For some, church and synagogues are the places people find peace; for others, it’s nature or a spa. I am comfortable in all of them, but one of my favorite places of worship is a real hardware store.
When I walked in to Norris the first time, I was greeted by a woman who peered over her bifocals and said, “Let me guess. You just moved in. Go see Alan.”
Over the next 15 years I would return, at least twice a week, more on the weekends; enough times that American Express suspected fraud because of multiple charges on the same day.
My kids loved coming along because Julia would make change for the gumball machine. They giggled as the candy circled down and lamented when they got a “bad” color that tasted exactly the same. The smile (and blue mouths) lasted for hours.
When the machine broke, even though my kids were past the cyclone gumball age, I hatched a plan to sneak back to where it is stored under the stairs and repair it. I was told that was a bad idea.
Whenever Craig, Alan, J.R., or others would see me coming, they would roll their eyes and say, “Whatcha got today?” and we would spend the next 10 minutes working together on the best way to solve a usually crazy idea or something I messed up.
They became my trusted engineering partners, my co-conspirators and my friends. We would talk about hardware, life, history and the funny neighbors who would come into the store. Ten minutes would turn into an hour.
A couple of months ago, I asked to see Ellen, the co-owner and granddaughter of Robert Norris, who started the shop in 1925. I told her everything that her store and the people who worked there had meant to me for so many years. I offered to get her a new gumball machine to show the community’s appreciation. She thanked me and said it wasn’t necessary.
I asked if we could do anything because her store does so much for us. “No, ” she said. I wish I had known then that her hesitancy was more than just humility.
When Norris closes, I will lose one of my main tent poles in our community, not because of the building or the history or the fact that it is a basic need for my DIY character. I will be sad without the people who work there, who have shared parts of their lives, helped me and given so much over the years in ways that are becoming increasingly rare in our curated and screen-controlled world.
I continue to believe that it’s what we give to each other that makes our community unique, not the buildings or stores.
It’s your turn. What would you like to say to Ellen and Grant, Julia, David, Vernon, Gen, Imelda, Craig, Alan, J.R., Greg, Nick, and Edwin? What has Norris meant to you?
Lou Kamer
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