The last time I walked into an antique store before this month was November of Nine. There are a couple of reasons. I tend to binge on antique stores. Having gone into one, I fret about what I might be missing in all the others. It is usually a flurry of visits followed by return trips to buy that thing I couldn't get off my mind. After a wild week of shopping, I have too much stuff and that feeling of 'ahhh, ughh, shouldna' done that.'
Also, from January through April, I emptied my mother's house. She lived there 49 years and while I have mentioned this before, I will say again, I did it single-handedly in a flurry of fear and anger, driven to accomplish it before mother died. Now it's a blur and I do not know how I did it. I got rid of things I would buy. I just sort of did not want my mother's things. To be sure I kept more than I know what to do with, but not more than a full car load really. It has too much ennui associated with it.
But now, just a month later, I am back to buying other people's crap. And here is how that started. I took just one hit, a trip to the school estate sale. I thought "maybe someone brought in some sewing notions." I spied with my discerning eye the a cardboard box. It was filled over flowing with bags of buttons sorted into colors.
Indulge me.
White, pink, ochre, coral, crimson and black...
Be reverent and enjoy the plate of teal buttons.
And this little dear gal who sorted all her buttons into colorways also saved....
bless her heart....
her buttons cards.
And friends, four dollars later, all of the above was mine. I am glad they went to me because I do believe I share that little lady's joy in these buttons right along beside her.
A stolen hour last weekend with Sparkle the Esquire and I own these matchbooks. Why?
Not sure but Kimmie bought the other bag and I had to have them.
That is a 1969 copy of a 1908 Sears catalog. And a chemistry text, of course.
Also a cool box of blocks with which I could spell Thomas.
And May's last booty...
I will sit with mother today and make a necklace from those beads.
Why does someone else's junk offer up possiblity while my own childhood stuff just holds melancholy?
I guess that question is the answer...
