Over the years I’ve grown more and more drawn to old things…antiques. I love them because of the scars they bear, which tell the story of their long and useful lives and give them character. I also love to think about the stories behind those items. Why does that jelly cabinet have a missing leg ornament? How did the corners become ragged on the old pantry? Who sat on that antique bench? What secrets were told there? How many lives were irrevocably changed on its scarred and saggy surface? Was there maybe a proposal? A first kiss?
The idea fascinates me. These items carry with them a physical signature of the events that shaped them. The careless child who gouged out a chunk of the ancient, roll top desk…the beloved puppy that chewed a corner off a rough-hewn dresser. Each item encapsulates a part of history.
You might be aware that I recently moved into my own little paradise in the woods. The cabin-like feel of my new house makes it a natural for antiques. I’m enjoying finding just the right antiques to place in just the right places in the new house. For example, today, a handyman is transforming an old attic door into a gate to keep my dogs off the stairs. It’s a really cool old door, made of darkly stained wood that bears evidence of decades of hard use. It has a really cool handle that moves within a cutout at the side of the door. I can picture someone carving the grip by hand and notching out the opening that seats it the same way. It’s aesthetically pleasing and functionally practical and I love it.
Besides, I like the idea that something which might have been discarded because it’s old and imperfect has been given a new job to do.
It gives me hope for myself as I’m dragged kicking and screaming toward my own antique years.
Happy Reading everybody!