Chapter 9 - THE STORE MY GRANDFATHER BUILT
Walter Davis opened his hardware store with almost nothing.
Janice told me he used to sleep in a room behind the stock area when rent money was tight.
Over time, the store expanded.
Then came small construction investments.
Commercial buildings.
Savings.
The beginnings of the fortune my father later assumed was his by birthright.
I walked through the abandoned aisles with Harvey.
“He loved this place,” Harvey said.
“I wish I remembered it.”
“You used to sit behind the counter.”
“I did?”
“Every Saturday when you were little.”
He smiled.
“Walter paid you fifty cents to put price stickers on boxes.”
“That sounds like child labor.”
“He called it character development.”
I laughed.
Then I saw an old pencil mark on the wall near the storeroom.
SADIE — AGE 5.
A line marked my height.
Below it:
MELANIE — AGE 3.
My throat closed.
My grandfather had measured both of us here.
Both.
Whatever happened later, there had once been a place where we were simply two little girls.
Not rivals.
Not the favorite and the disappointment.
Just grandchildren.
I decided to restore the building.
But not as some expensive monument to my grief.
The front would reopen as a specialty hardware and training center.
The rear workshop would host paid apprenticeships.
Carpentry.
Electrical work.
Plumbing.
Construction trades.
Young people who wanted skilled careers but couldn’t afford traditional college could train while earning money.
Wyatt loved the idea.
“Need a contractor?”
“Do you know one?”
“I may have some experience.”
“You sold your company.”
“I didn’t sell my ability to use a measuring tape.”
“That remains unproven.”
Working on the store gave us something other than the attack to talk about.
Paint.
Permits.
Shelving.
Accessibility.
Training programs.
Normal problems.
Good problems.
When the building reopened, Harvey and Janice stood beside me.
Above the door was a bronze plaque.
WALTER DAVIS
A GOOD MAN BUILDS MORE THAN BUILDINGS.
HE BUILDS PEOPLE.
Harvey started crying before the cloth was fully removed.
So did Janice.
I did too.
Reporters asked whether restoring the store was my response to my family.
“No,” I said.
“It’s my response to my grandfather.”
That distinction mattered.
My parents had spent months trying to make themselves the center of my future.
I was done allowing that.
But one piece of Walter’s past still remained.
Harvey called me several weeks later.
“I think you’re ready.”
“For what?”
May you like
“The cemetery.”
And when we arrived, he carried something wrapped in an old blanket.
