Store of Stores

Huntington, N.Y.

OUT here in the suburban tracts that surround the Big Apple, a recurring feature of the landscape is the Big Orange. So also across the nation: If you own a house, and look after it yourself, you can probably give directions to your nearest Home Depot. I could drive blindfolded to mine. It is my favorite store, with appeal across a wide range of sensibilities. There is the Ding an such, of course, the thing itself: a treasure cave of tools, lumber, roofing, shelving, siding, wiring, screws, nails, hooks, paint, glue, pipes, bulbs, soffits, grommets, and grout. Then there are the ancillary pleasures of shopping in an establishment as big as the Palace of Versailles: the puzzle-solver’s joy at tracking down the item you came in for along those endless aisles, the awe with which you contemplate the number of other things they persuaded you to buy along the way, the satisfaction of knowing that you are doing something that Al Gore and his legions of righteous anti-“sprawl” busybodies do not want you to do. Even that lurid orange color appeals to me: For family reasons, I am in sympathy with the Protestants of Ulster. Home Depot is my kind of store.

About the Author

John Derbyshire

Mr. Derbyshire is a former contributing editor of National Review.

Featured Tags

Huntington, N.Y.

OUT here in the suburban tracts that surround the Big Apple, a recurring feature of the landscape is the Big Orange. So also across the nation: If you own a house, and look after it yourself, you can probably give directions to your nearest Home Depot. I could drive blindfolded to mine. It is my favorite store, with appeal across a wide range of sensibilities. There is the Ding an such, of course, the thing itself: a treasure cave of tools, lumber, roofing, shelving, siding, wiring, screws, nails, hooks, paint, glue, pipes, bulbs, soffits, grommets, and grout. Then there are the ancillary pleasures of shopping in an establishment as big as the Palace of Versailles: the puzzle-solver’s joy at tracking down the item you came in for along those endless aisles, the awe with which you contemplate the number of other things they persuaded you to buy along the way, the satisfaction of knowing that you are doing something that Al Gore and his legions of righteous anti-“sprawl” busybodies do not want you to do. Even that lurid orange color appeals to me: For family reasons, I am in sympathy with the Protestants of Ulster. Home Depot is my kind of store.