When I think about visiting my Grandfather’s hardware store as a kid, with my brother and sisters, it conjures up so many memories. Running in and out the front door, over and over again, to hear the bell marking our entrance and exit. Smelling paint being mixed to match one of hundreds of color swatches displayed on the lit wall. Hearing wood being cut for shelving, furniture, fences, and treehouses. And breathing in the scents of mulch and fertilizer that wafted through the aisles.
The cash register drawer would ding upon closing and we’d look up. There she was, smiling down at us. Our real Russian Polish Jewish Grandma, Yiddish accent and all, behind the checkout counter with her perfectly polished long red nails and stiffly teased hair as if she’d just come from the beauty parlor. She would motion to us to come closer, reaching over the counter with a fistful of butterscotch hard candies or lollipops. Then she would send us on our way, warning “Don’t with those in your mouths.”
And then there were the warm greetings from everyone who worked there. Smiles, one armed hugs, pats on the head, as we made our way toward the back of the store.
The staff knew us from photos in my grandfather’s office, even if we didn’t know them. It made us feel like royalty.
Most of the older sales women wore shoes with slanted laces and thicker than thick soles, the likes of which I’d never seen before. They squeaked with each step on the immaculately shiny linoleum tile floor. I loved to walk behind them, timing my steps with theirs, counting the squeaks.
This was not your typical down and dirty, saw dusty hardware store. My grandfather had had one of those first. I loved visiting that one too. But here, the aisles were long and gleaming, the shelves impeccably tidy and organized. This one was a state of the art modern version, long before giants like Home Depot and Loews came on the scene. Still, with all the newness, it had a warm family feel to it.
Good service was paramount to my Grandfather. If a customer couldn’t find what they needed he would get it by the next day and make sure it was delivered to their door. He’d constantly remind us, “The customer is always right. It’s up to us to give them a reason to come back here instead of going somewhere else.”
The people who worked for him stayed for years and years. Even their kids came to work for him. He considered the staff his extended family, listening to their problems, offering help whenever possible. As long as they were honest and hard working, he would support them. He took many of them under his wing to teach them how to run a department or a business.
Trudy wore those cool squeaky shoes. She had worked there forever. Inevitably she would be the one to round us up and whisper, “Your grandfather is waiting for you. You know where he is.”
And we knew just what to do. Head for the inner sanctum. This was by far the best part. There was a secret door in the back of the store, cut into a pegboard wall that was filled with tools. It was the gateway to heaven. Behind it was a secret set of stairs leading up to a long hallway of offices that overlooked the selling floor. Only certain people were allowed up there, at least that’s what our grandfather told us. You had to be in the inner circle and we definitely were. Talk about special.
Before reaching the top of the stairs, we could smell the half sour pickles, pastrami, corned beef and turkey specials on rye with cole slaw and russian dressing. And of course the knishes. Just in case there wasn’t enough food, there were also kosher knockwurst smeared with Guldens spicy mustard, piled high with sour kraut, all ordered in from Katz’s for our special private lunch.
My grandfather never ate more than half a sandwich. “You can’t think when you’re too full”, he’d say. Meanwhile each half was the size a cow. We felt like we were breaking our jaws biting into them. Before we could make a dent in them, he’d say said, “Okay, you finished? Save it for later. We have work to do!”, shooing us back downstairs but never before he gave us each a squeeze. We would be sent off to “help out” on the floor, each to a different department. “Now pay attention, I’ll be asking you questions later,” he’d instruct. “Oh no, a test,” I’d think to myself. And off we would go.
I still miss him. I miss my grandmother’s amazing warmth, delicious cooking, and soft touch. In fact I have often missed that wonderful feeling that came with being their grandchild. But I am so glad my first exposure to retail was through those visits to my grandfather’s store. So simple, yet so layered in messages and memories.
And always with a side of chicken fat and a lot of love.
