I could feel the heat from the hardware store’s stove warming my feet as I sat on the couch in our second floor apartment. My toes nearly glowed with happiness. In such heat a body could nearly forget the cardboard covered holes in her shoes and the snow outside the window.
A body could nearly forget everything. I touched the corner of wool blankets next to me and brushed lint off the red box on top. Well, nearly.
Mama always said, “Lucille, honey, we’re lucky to have the store.”
She’d brush my wild curls into submission and tell me that other folks would love this here place even with the oily smell. Or some days, she’d say they’d like it even with the chipped walls or with all the men hanging around outside looking for work from any fortunate builder or handyman with a job big enough to hire extra hands.
I don’t know who she was trying to convince. Maybe herself or my older brother, George. I don’t think either of them liked their jobs in the family business.
But I certainly didn’t need telling. I loved Miles Hardware. Three stories of rising red brick between the white clapboard buildings.
Throughout my life, I’ve traveled past myriad straight, even people—the perfect, solid fence posts. Each guarding a territory, surrounding, protecting, being useful.
I’ll be honest, most of the time I love Christmas. It is, after all, the most wonderful time of the year.
I’ve always had a hard time making “real-life” friends. It is, I think, partly why I like books so much.
I sat in church the other day and listened to folks talk to the brand new mom behind me.