The Hardware Store of Chiomonte

According to family legend, I was conceived in a rustic mountain cabin and nearly born there. Maybe it’s only a story, but for reasons I can’t fully explain, I’ve always felt bound to that place by a complicated affection,  a mix of tenderness and uneasiness that never quite faded.

As a child, I spent holidays, summers, and weekends within its walls, playing on the living room floor while my father worked at his bench. My toys and his tools mingled in a small, chaos, scattered across the floor or balanced on the edge of that improvised workspace.

Sometimes he asked me to pass him the big hammer, or the flathead screwdriver with the red handle; other times the short, chunky yellow one with a Phillips head. Helping him made me feel useful. More than that, it made me happy.

I remember one summer—I must have been five or six—when my father came home with a dark blue metal toolbox, solid and gleaming, with a heavy handle. The way it opened fascinated me: lift the handle and the lid unfolded into a cascade of compartments—wide, narrow, impossibly small. I couldn’t imagine what treasures such tiny spaces were meant to hold.

At the bottom, everything had its place: the hammer, the level, the folding ruler, the adjustable wrenches, perfectly aligned. My father was proud of that toolbox. I imagine it still exists somewhere, forgotten on a garage shelf, collecting dust and rust, its hinges stiff and complaining with age.

That blue toolbox lived a working life, much like my father himself—stuffed with tools, rags, sandpaper, and whatever a project happened to require. When it came to his hobbies, he left nothing to chance.

Each project demanded a different approach, a different set of tools. At first, he borrowed what he needed from neighbors and friends, keeping to simple, tentative jobs. But as his confidence grew, he realized it wasn’t enough.

That was how a new ritual began: the pilgrimage to the hardware store.

One August morning, during his three weeks of summer vacation, my father announced he was going to the hardware store in the nearby town of Chiomonte. He asked my mother if she needed anything from the grocery store, and the moment he said hardware store, my curiosity ignited.

“What’s a hardware store?” I asked.

He smiled. “It’s like a toy store for adults.”

That was all it took. I slipped on my shoes, grabbed Trudy—my small plush teddy bear, companion to countless adventures—and ran to the door.

“Come on, Dad!”

We drove slowly along the mountain road in our dark green Fiat 127. Fifteen minutes to Chiomonte. I loved that town for two reasons: the bakery made the best paste di meliga, bread, and white focaccia in the entire valley; and the newsstand always carried the newest comic books and collectible stickers.

At the time, my universe revolved around food, comics, and stickers. I didn’t yet know I was about to discover a third reason to love Chiomonte.

My father parked in the main square, beside a massive granite fountain that spat icy water from the mouth of a bronze lion. The square was wedged between two steep slopes and overlooked a deep ravine.

Though it was the height of summer, the air was cold. A thin veil of dew clung to the roofs of cars and houses. Chiomonte sat at the lowest, narrowest point of the valley, and its center never saw the sun. It remained in shadow year-round. I was grateful my mother had pressed my pink cardigan into my arms before we left. Mothers, as it turns out, always know.

We walked down the main alley, darkened by shade and by the thick stone walls of houses as old as time itself. Holding my father’s hand, Trudy tucked under my arm, I was immediately distracted: the smell of fresh bread drifting from the bakery door, glossy magazine covers calling to me like magnets, scooters roaring past as children laughed and chased a patched-up ball.

I had already forgotten our destination. My head was full of cookies, swings, and superheroes, until my father’s steady hand brought me back. We had a mission.

When we stopped in front of the hardware store, my enthusiasm faltered. The window displayed only gray, practical objects. No toys. I nearly refused to go inside, but my father gently guided me through the door as a tiny bell tied with a red ribbon chimed above us.

Inside, the shop was lined with shelves and counters made of worm-eaten wood, overflowing with objects I couldn’t name. The air smelled sharply of oil and dust. The owner—an elderly man in faded jeans and a plaid flannel shirt—emerged from behind the counter, a pencil tucked behind his ear, fogged glasses balanced on his ruddy nose.

He and my father greeted each other and slipped into their lively dialect, voices rising and falling, punctuated by sudden laughter. I couldn’t understand a word, and nothing at first glance seemed to justify such delight.

Left to myself, I sat on a wobbly stool and began to observe. The floor was ancient, creaking under every step—wide planks scarred with scratches and riddled with mysterious holes, gnawed perhaps by mice, or simply by time. I looked from the floor to the shopkeeper’s hands and face. They seemed carved by the same years.

Before long, I realized the floor was musical. Each step produced a different note, and as more customers arrived, the shop filled with a strange, joyful symphony. Delighted, I hopped from plank to plank, composing melodies with my feet.

Carried along by this music, I began to explore. Towering shelves and cabinets filled with drawers surrounded me. Tools of every imaginable size filled the space, each guarding its own secret. Half-open drawers spilled over with screws and bolts; wires dangled from the walls; wooden boards still smelled faintly of pine resin.

I touched everything. The more I looked, the more the objects seemed to multiply, until my head began to spin.

With time, I learned to see the hardware store through my father’s eyes. It wasn’t merely a place to buy tools—it was a playground for creativity, a quiet sanctuary of things waiting to be built, repaired, or reinvented.

As the years passed and I continued to accompany him on these small missions, my father would ask me to find a wrench or bag a handful of screws. Together we wandered the aisles, trading ideas and possibilities. The scent of wood and sawdust, the clang of metal, the cool weight of a screwdriver in my hand—these became our shared language. The glue of our relationship.

Looking back now, it isn’t the blue toolbox or the finished projects that matter most. It’s the quiet joy of those simple moments, standing side by side with my father in the hardware store in Chiomonte.

Even today, that memory warms me, a reminder that the most ordinary places can hold the most extraordinary love.

©  ::  Visioni Vita • Via Francesca