Potpourri: any mixture, esp. of unrelated objects, subjects, etc.
One of my favorite pastimes is slowly, very un-methodically passing through an antique mall, consignment outlet, or a small town’s row of shoppes and such. I take my time to make sure I don’t overlook anything that might spark a precious memory of my childhood, which took place in rural Georgia, outside Atlanta, (I was born in 1955).
I love to look at all the memorabilia of days gone by and revel in many-times-subconscious flashbacks to a time when my grandmother was my babysitter while my mom, an unusual specimen of a working mother in the late 50’s/early ’60’s, and the farm community life that was my whole world in those days. My grandpa, probably in his sixties back then, would be in fields very early with his plow and the mules, Pet and Ida (pronounced as one word: Pettanider), and I was very happy to be there.
But I digress.
These days, trips to the places that proudly display all the items of those days gone by are among my favorite things to do.
Every once in a while, something will catch my eye, and I am thrilled with my victory and confidence that I’ve discovered something very old and very valuable that I HAVE to buy in order make some extra cash because I’m certain its inherent value will pay for its current price many times over.
So, I buy it. I bring it home. And I never try to sell it.
Recently, I drove to Atlanta to take my mom to the doctor, who is in her eighties now and battling liver cancer, very successfully, I might add, thanks to her feisty stubborn, “This ain’t gonna bother me. If God wants me to live, I’ll live!” attitude while she continues gardening her vegetables and the most beautiful flowers in the county.
This time, rather than driving to Piedmont Hospital close to Downtown, the doctor had her go to his office in Newnan. This meant we wouldn’t take the fast route via the freeway. Instead we’d take the scenic drive over curvy country roads, through charming small towns and enjoying beautiful pastoral views all the way. It was marvelous!
Mother and I chatted all the way, and I loved every second with her and having this time to spend with her all to myself.
When we left the doctor’s office, good news in hand, and headed back to her house, we remembered that we’d passed an “estate” sale on the way down. We decided to stop on the way back, being in no hurry and nothing better to do.
The house itself, right on the apron of the tiny town was an older, could-be-beautiful Victorian. The yard was filled with all kinds of trash and treasures which meant Mother and I could spend at least an hour in Heaven (where do you think my love of browsing came from?).
I found several things; I gave $8 for a twin sized Jenny Lind bed, $2 for a beautiful, complete set of heavy margarita glasses, and then… it happened.
One thing caught my eye, and in my usual fashion, I KNEW I’d found a treasure. It was only $3, and I was convinced it might be worth hundreds. Of course, I bought it.
Since then, at least four weeks have passed and minus a few minutes checking the antique appraisal websites, I haven’t made one attempt to sell this treasure that I’d “stolen.”
This morning, sitting on our deck with a cup of coffee and enjoying the breezy whisper of freshly green leaves and bouts of sunshine peeking through a few scurrying clouds, I remembered that piece and wondered why I’d thought it was so valuable. I started to laugh at myself for being so silly, but, then, I had an epiphany.
It was as though, all at once, I remembered dozens of these “investments” I’d made and how I believed each to be valuable when, after the very seldom times I actually made an attempt to re-sell one, I found it wasn’t worth very much at all.
I thought of the piece sitting in my living room right now that, when my husband saw it, he just rolled his eyes (he’s learned to humor me, I guess).
I realized that these pieces were links to my happy childhood and how having them in my possession somehow made me a little closer to those who are now long dead; grandparents, aunts and uncles and dear family friends.
I grew up in a family, who for generations, bought nice furniture. Once. Then, these pieces or sets became heirlooms for future sons, daughters, grandchildren and beyond. Actually, I think everyone in our little community was that way, so even as a child, when we visited someone’s house – whether it was complete with silver place settings or lacking indoor plumbing – I always “listened” to the “feel” of their home to know whether it would be a fun visit or not.
How it sounded: Hushed adult conversations so as not to not disturb the quiet, controlled ambiance or raucous laughter, squeals from surprise Indian burns, puppies scratching and whining to get in at the unlocked back screen door, and maybe a pressure cooker’s frantic wheezing from the kitchen doing its part to have dinner ready for the family.
How it smelled: From freshly baked blackberry cobblers to pleasantly musty scents of handmade quilts a hundred years old to just-cut roses brought in from beside the porch, sometimes put in a coffee can filled with water to keep them fresh, less frequently in a gorgeous crystal vase, but each equally beautiful.
How it looked: Well cared for solid mahogany, oak, cherry and Georgia pine furnishings that today would be priceless but, back then, were useful hand me downs or hardship investments in the necessary.
The memories I have of those days include when my Grandma was my biggest fan and defender against tough teasing and pranks (I have a big sister and a big brother and, while they knew I was the spoiled baby in the family, they never saw themselves as the more experienced torture pros that older siblings just are!).
So, this morning, finishing my coffee before getting back to work, I made a determination that, with the pieces I already have and that get my attention in the future, I’ll try to make a conscious connection to those happy memories that heretofore have been vague, sweet stirrings in my chest and a mysterious attachment.
I think my newest addition, the one sitting in my living room, must remind me my grandfather. Thinking back, I seem to remember he may have had something similar. And the precious snapshots and video clips in my mind of that scruffy, “Oscar the Grouch,” lovable, hard working, stubborn Swede will fill at least a chapter in the book I plan to write someday to truly express how grateful I am for the life I’ve lived so far.
And I will probably never sell this piece. I most likely couldn’t if I wanted to because, truly, it’s not worth very much. It’s a very old, very worn gentleman’s shaving mirror and valet (circa 1890) with one leg missing, the mirror being long past usefulness, and the drawer handles broken off years ago.
But while these treasures may never be of value to anyone else, I LOVE them. And I have a new appreciation for why I want them. They are the links to my past and to people I value having had in my life who I will never see again from an era that will never be again in the history of the world.
NOTE: I don’t know what happened to this treasure, but like so many others lost in all my many moves over the years, I will always regret not having it close.
