Don’t you just love the old hardware stores? The ones where your shoes step onto creaky wood floors that announce construction with every step. You can find small drawers filled with different size screws and bins of various nails. You can fill a bag or buy just one. Even the aroma is so distinct in a hardware store.
I have three that stand out in my memory. The one on Liberty Street in Trenton was about five blocks from the home of my youth. It was built in a V. I remember my father taking me there when I was under five years old. We entered at the point and I’m sure he carried something in his hand that he needed to ask about and to replace. That was probably the beginning of my love of architecture. I made many trips there alone as I grew. Sometimes just to browse around and soak up the feeling of the place.
The second one is App’s Hardware on Farnsworth Avenue in Bordentown, New Jersey. I’d go in when Mel was still alive and explain to him what I needed for my old house. If he didn’t have it (and that was very unusual) he’d tell me where I could get it. That’s hometown service that you’ll never get in a box store. Later Neil followed Mel’s ways and searched through those little drawers or bins or somewhere in the back where he remembered seeing exactly what I needed. He’d also give me advice on how to fix or repair an item I was having trouble with, sometimes losing a sale.
The third is the hardware store on N. Main Street in Warrenton, North Carolina. They’ve got it all including help and advice. In the spring I just have to stop my car and go in as soon as I see the racks on the sidewalk filled with herb, vegetable and decorative plants. Of course as soon as I arrive home, I realize I’ve forgotten to buy what I went in there for.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Changing Names
Recently I was voted onto the Board of a volunteer group. The following month when the minutes were sent out via email my name came up as Arlene White. A great, deep laugh erupted from me immediately. It seems to be an inherited curse on the women of my heritage.
My mother’s name was Anna May Philkill Daniels Bice Riggi. Her father was adopted. When he found out his real name he changed it and hers too. This took place after my mother carried his adopted name for five years. Bice was her first husband’s (my father’s) name. She remarried about ten years after my father died. Riggi was her second husband’s name
My great-grandmother carried the Daniels, Krieser, Hardy and Philkill names. Whew! That’s the result of a lot of genealogy! The mystery continues. . . . . .her mother was a Bell, a Daniels and died a Martin.
I've changed my name three times, carrying the name of the man (usually called a husband) in my life. So I’ve received mail in the name of Bice, Morrison, Brady and Falvo. And back to Bice again. When I finally took my maiden name back it felt like putting on a pair of old comfortable shoes. That’s it, I swear! I’ll never change my name again. Fortunately I bore all sons, never a daughter to be concerned about what name she will carry.
My mother’s name was Anna May Philkill Daniels Bice Riggi. Her father was adopted. When he found out his real name he changed it and hers too. This took place after my mother carried his adopted name for five years. Bice was her first husband’s (my father’s) name. She remarried about ten years after my father died. Riggi was her second husband’s name
My great-grandmother carried the Daniels, Krieser, Hardy and Philkill names. Whew! That’s the result of a lot of genealogy! The mystery continues. . . . . .her mother was a Bell, a Daniels and died a Martin.
I've changed my name three times, carrying the name of the man (usually called a husband) in my life. So I’ve received mail in the name of Bice, Morrison, Brady and Falvo. And back to Bice again. When I finally took my maiden name back it felt like putting on a pair of old comfortable shoes. That’s it, I swear! I’ll never change my name again. Fortunately I bore all sons, never a daughter to be concerned about what name she will carry.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Silence
I attended an all-day writers’ workshop in Chapel Hill recently. When we broke for lunch workshop presenter Debra Moffitt planned that we each eat in silence. She stated that most Americans are uneasy in silence. Their houses are filled with music, TV or other sounds that float in the background. It’s true. Most of us are unused to the quiet. Until I moved to North Carolina to write full-time, I usually had music playing in the background, maybe softly but it was there while I worked. I sold music CDs in my bookshop so I always featured a CD, varying the type of music to appeal to different tastes.
Silence filled my house for my first year in the south. It fed my creativity allowing my mind to really think without distracting noises. I live rurally surrounded by forest. Trees are a great filter of noise. I don’t live near an airport or large city so when on rare occasions an airplane flies over I notice it. It took me back to my childhood when we stopped to point out a plane spotted in the sky. Unusual in those days.
So I delighted in taking my lunch and finding a shady spot under a tree in the forest that circles the library. A couple of folks couldn’t do it. They sat on a bench outside and chatted away. Oh, she also told us that reading at lunch doesn’t count. That’s mind noise.
Silence filled my house for my first year in the south. It fed my creativity allowing my mind to really think without distracting noises. I live rurally surrounded by forest. Trees are a great filter of noise. I don’t live near an airport or large city so when on rare occasions an airplane flies over I notice it. It took me back to my childhood when we stopped to point out a plane spotted in the sky. Unusual in those days.
So I delighted in taking my lunch and finding a shady spot under a tree in the forest that circles the library. A couple of folks couldn’t do it. They sat on a bench outside and chatted away. Oh, she also told us that reading at lunch doesn’t count. That’s mind noise.
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