When we talked

We, as human males, used to talk, and talk often. Those days are pretty much gone, at least until the phones and social networking implodes. This realization came from high-brow classical theater. My inspiration was from the immortal 'Home Improvement' staring the Poet Laureate Tim Allen. In the show, our hero is bemoaning the loss of the neighborhood hardware store. These places were traditionally a meeting place, as well as monument of capitalism. The scene in that store was set with chairs, a counter with stools, a coffee pot, and the much-maligned donuts. The background held the items for sale, and a key machine. In a phrase, the stuff of legend. People there knew things, practical things, essential man things. For male seasoned citizens, it's a fond memory. In my youth, we had Marlin's store in Herald. It had most items in the universe, including conversation. If I'd been old enough to ask, I'm sure Noel could tell me how to do almost everything. Fast forward half a century, back in my beloved White County. Enfield had a hardware store just like the one on the Tim Allen show. There were chairs, which were normally filled by the usual suspects. Many were elderly, and are gone now. There was a coffee pot, and the occasional donut. Mostly, there was talk. There were stories upon stories. Jerry was in WWII, as was Buck. Incidentally, Buck was the second oldest man in Enfield at the time. Donnie could devise a workaround to any project, or someone else could. Lowell had his own brand of common sense, as did Milton. There was nostalgia, and strategic planning worthy of the Pentagon. In that building you could learn anything, if you talked, and listened. Those places have been replaced by corporate anonymity. All of the other places men went are gone too. The barbershop is almost extinct. You could go to Winkleman's, or the Arcade, or Grant's. You'd get a haircut, learn the news, decipher the world stage, and sometimes come away with a new nickname, like 'Gig', or 'Doggie', or 'Red Tape.' Those hair shops were like the one in the movie, 'Gran Torino,' but few remain. Most are girl places with flowery scents and strange chemicals. Hardware stores, barbershops, corner bars, pool halls are nearly gone. We still have a few diners, but those aren't typically conducive to strategic planning or plumbing introspection. Now, to be a man, we have to resort to Clint Eastwood and Sly Stallone movies. Unfortunately, those don't help with projects or nicknames. I guess men are doomed, until the internets die. Fini.