The anti MallWart thread which I started in the Pit caused me to think about some prophetic words spoken roughly thirty years ago.
When I was a little cat, Saturdays were fix things days, and I’d tag along with Dad as he went about repairing and improving our home. Such projects occasioned visits to a variety of places loosely grouped under the heading of ‘hardware stores’. To a child, these were magical places with shelves reaching to the sky, thousands of items of which I knew little, but these things were understood by Dad. The proprietors all knew Dad by name, would ask about my Mom and siblings, and usually a friendly dog could be found, asleep by the cash register.
Their commonalities were well-worn wooden floors, a bell on the front door, slow moving ceiling fans in the summertime, a smell of work, a mixture of pipe or cigar smoke, aroma of wood, with a tinge of dog. Bulk goods such as bags of sand or cement were outside on wooden pallets, but no one worried about theft. In retrospect, I have to wonder if the door was even locked.
Although similar, each store seemed to have a specialty, a personality as unique as the man or woman behind the counter. One would carry a better selection of electrical supplies, another had oily machines off to the side where pipe could be cut to length and threaded, the shop down in the next town had the best selection of paint, and this fellow could take a tired old saw and restore the edge to a keenness equalling that of a new tool.
Years passed, and I joined the volunteer fire company. Owing to an apprenticeship under Dad, I’d become fairly handy and often worked on projects at the station. Visits to Ed’s Hardware were regular. An affable fellow, he and his wife lived in a modest house attached to the rear of the store, and sometimes you’d find him watching TV with the door to the house open so he’d hear the arrival of a customer. Always greated by a hearty, “Hey, pal. How’s your Mom and Dad? or What are you workin’ on today, buddy?”, simply walking through the door was an enjoyable experience. The man possessed a mental inventory of that store which astounded me. If I asked for #10 x 1 1/4" flat head wood screws, he could tell me how many aisles to walk, where to turn, and what they were next to, all without leaving his seat at the counter.
Pricing was negotiable. His query was standard, “Is this for you or the fire house?” The fire company, being a community organization, was strongly supported by men like Ed, and pricing reflected his convictions. Once that was determined, he’d muse for a moment, and say, “Ah-gimme a buck and a half.” If I’d hand him a dollar, and pull change from a trouser pocket, and not find two quarters, he’d say, “Ah-that’s good. I’ll get you next time.”, although next time never seemed to be remembered. If I tried to remind him of the quarter or so, he’d shush me with a wave of his hand, and his ready laugh.
One other oddity of Ed’s Hardware was the pool table. Between the pipe rack, and the storm door parts was a full size slate bed pool table, like one would find in a tavern. One afternoon, he invited me to play, if I had the time. Offer accepted, and play commenced. Ed knew my age probably near as closely as did my parents, and he offered me a beer. This was a great afternoon, shooting pool with a fellow I’d been seeing since I was around 5 or 6, and enjoying a cold one. Ed won the rack, turned to me and he looked sad.
“You know the old Grants store up on York Road?” he asked. “Word is they’re gonna put in a Rickel.” If you don’t recognize the name, Rickel was one of the early home center stores, and was part of Supermarkets General Corporation, the parent company of Pathmark. “They’re gonna put me out of business.” I couldn’t understand what he was talking about. Why on earth would someone go to some other place when they could find what they needed at Ed’s? I saw fear in the mans expression-he was probably in his late 50s or early 60s then, and likely all he had ever done was hardware.
I kept going to Ed’s for anything that he had, even if it cost a bit more, but it was only a matter of time. New developments were filled by folks who never knew the man, and so it came to pass that he closed the store, and hopefully got enough money out of the deal to retire comfortably. All the other places I’d visited with Dad have gone the same route, and those who brought about their demise have devoured one another.
Perhaps I have better prices now, but I’d trade that for independent business men such as Ed. 
