Disclaimer: Devoted Grandma is reader-supported. If you purchase anything through my site, I may receive a small commission (at no cost to you). Thank you.
Ron Jacobs hadn’t been back to Galesburg, Illinois, in over thirty years. He’d left right after high school, suitcase in hand, heading to Chicago with dreams of becoming somebody, or at least escaping the version of himself everyone in town seemed to know, quiet kid, always short on lunch money, worn-out sneakers with duct tape on the toes.
He was back now for his high school reunion, of all things, a little older, a little softer in the middle, and a lot more reflective than he used to be. Driving down Main Street, he passed McClure’s Hardware, with the same peeling red sign and the same dusty window displays. And just like that, a memory he hadn’t touched in years came rushing back.
It was the summer of ’93, and Ron had just landed a landscaping job that required his own tools. He didn’t have any. He’d come into McClure’s with a folded ten-dollar bill and a list of things he couldn’t afford. Mr. McClure, who always wore a bolo tie and spoke in short sentences, had asked what Ron was up to. When Ron explained, the old man didn’t say much. He just rang up what Ron needed—pruners, gloves, a shovel—and the total came to more than double what Ron had.
Ron remembered staring at the register, defeated. Mr. McClure had reached under the counter, pulled out a pad, scribbled something, and handed Ron a yellow receipt with “PAID” written in red marker.
“Make something of yourself,” was all he said.
Ron never forgot that day. He still had the receipt, yellowed and creased, tucked in an old wallet he kept in a box in his closet.
That afternoon, Ron pushed open the door to the hardware store. A little bell jingled overhead. Behind the counter was a young woman, probably early 30s, flipping through a catalog.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Mr. McClure.”
She smiled kindly. “That’d be my granddad. He’s retired now, but he still comes in most mornings to drink coffee and tell us how we’re doing things wrong. He’s out back. Want me to get him?”
Moments later, the old man shuffled out from behind a beaded curtain. Still wore a bolo tie. Still didn’t say much.
Ron introduced himself and watched as Mr. McClure’s weathered face worked through the memory.
“You gave me a bunch of tools once. Said I should make something of myself,” Ron said, voice catching.
Mr. McClure blinked. “You the kid with the duct tape shoes?”
Ron laughed. “That’s me.”
They talked for a few minutes. Ron told him about the landscaping business he’d started, how it had grown, and how he now had fifteen employees. Before he left, he handed Mr. McClure a fresh $50 bill.
“For the tools,” he said.
McClure held up the bill, studied it, and then slid it into the tip jar by the register.
“Someone else’ll need it,” he said. “You said thank you. That’s more than most.”
And as Ron stepped back into the bright autumn sun, he felt like he’d finally closed a circle that had been open for thirty years.
