The lumbar yard and hardware store has always been associated in my mind with the father. It is the realm of Papa, and there he is both respected and superior in knowledge. There is an ingrained inferiority when it comes to these manly, fatherly realms.  I am convinced that if I stepped into the hardware store with my father forty years from now, any personal accomplishments and confidence would be blown away with a breath, and I would again become meek and ignorant, reaching above my head to hold the hand of my father, counting the sizes between our feet and watching with awe as he moved, godlike, among the aisles, knowing just how to manipulate each tool and trinket to his wish.

When I step into the hardware store with my Uncle John, I immediately revert to the role of quiet, obedient son, as I attempt to remain behind, but not so close as to step on his heels, pouncing on his every request and direction, attentively soaking in his every word, barely catching myself from saying yes sir when he addresses me. The father never leaves us, even though we may travel two thousand miles away from his presence.

That’s all.