For those of us who are older (definition withheld), many of our fondest memories are of simpler times and experiences with the characters that defined small towns. That was certainly true for me growing up in southwestern Louisiana where those characters shaped my view of the world and how simple acts were common. Being short a few cents when buying that snow cone on a hot summer day was just the cost of doing business. Those snow cone stands knew that those cents would be forthcoming the next time we needed snow cones.
These are the characters that many of us recall when asked about the folks who made a difference in our lives. And it is often those little things that pop up in our current lives that spark the memory, like having a few pennies to spare in your pocket that remind you of those snow cones. A recent little thing did just that for me and it is a story of the small town that I now share.
A recent visit to the Moss Point Library had me taking down a metal stand that holds a set of Purple Martin Gourds. The stand has two parts: a round base pipe snuggly set in the ground and a vertical pipe that rises to include the expanded array of arms from which the gourds hang. It was a simple design that my good friend Charlie Brenke and I installed after Hurricane Katrina to help Purple Martins, which had lost so many homes from the storm.
The two parts were connected with two small bolts that allowed the upper section to pivot down to the ground for access and cleaning of the gourds. Back in 2007, after the first year of Martin’s occupation, I went by to clean the gourds. As I reset the structure, inserting the bolt through the hole and about to screw on the nut, I fumbled it in my hand, and it fell to the ground in the tall grass where I knew it would disappear – and it did.
As I mumbled about my situation, it dawned on me that Lennep’s Hardware Store was just two blocks away and that Mr. Gary surely had a nut – a single nut out of his open bins of nuts, washers, bolts, and everything hardware that anyone could possibly need. Lennep’s was the kind of place where if they didn’t have it, you didn’t really need it. Sure enough, Mr. Gary led me to the correct bin, reached in, and dropped the nut in my hand. “How much Mr. Gary?” “Naw, nothing for that” was his reply, waving me away with a grin. On my way out, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a quarter (surely more than the nut was worth), and placed it on the counter as I walked out.
Eighteen years later, I am standing at that Martin stand, removing that same nut. I knew that I was going to replace the bolt and nut with new ones so that the old rusty nut was no longer needed. But it was “that” nut that Mr. Gary gifted me and the Purple Martins so many years ago. It had served its purpose well and deserved better than the trash. It now hangs on a piece of twine (also previously available at Lennep’s) on my rear-view mirror – because it is “that” nut.
Now, I have told this story about that nut more times than I can remember, because it is just that kind of story that defines a small town. But having the very nut that was the center of the story is special. It is priceless, even though it costs me nothing. One nut made a difference that day and I have Mr. Gary Lennep to thank – and remember every time I see that nut.
Small towns matter.
