It was a beautiful day in town with so much to see and do. Any outdoor seat could have guaranteed great people watching, but on an early spring day like this, walking and window-shopping were in order.
I strolled past the front window of a nearby antique shop. Sunlight reflected in a hundred directions as it struck crystal glasses lined along a shelf. The rainbow of sparkles caught my eye so I stopped to look. My mother has glasses like these, I thought. On a shelf below was a huge punch bowl. Also similar to hers.
Staring at these pieces reminded me of a conversation I once had with a coworker. A pre-virus, in-person discussion, long before Zoom meetings replaced water-cooler chats. My office was just down the hall from Karen’s.
I glanced in her door on my way to the copier and she motioned to me frantically. Hardly looking up from her computer, her hand waved me towards her desk. She was breathing heavily.
“Isn’t this antique Italian walnut burl carved armoire beautiful?” she asked.
“What?” I wasn’t even sure what language she was speaking.
She shoved the monitor in my direction, pointed at the screen, and waited for me to be awed.
“Oh.” I said. “A wardrobe.”
“You have one?” she asked with a slight smirk.
“No, but I have a cedar wardrobe that was my great-grandmother’s.” I answered.
“Of course.” She frowned as she slid the monitor back towards herself. “I love proper antiques.”
“I like old stuff too.” I left for the copier.
I have plenty of old stuff. Not just old, but meaningful. Each piece belonged to someone in my family and was passed down and down again until landing with me. Most aren’t valuable in dollars, but each has a story. When I look at them, I imagine the person who touched them, used them, and whether they ever imagined that a hundred years later a relative would be grateful to have them.
The fancy Italian armoire that Karen panted over was pretty, but it meant nothing to me. I would rather have my great-grandmother’s simple cedar wardrobe than all of Italy’s armoires. Then again, I don’t know antiques. I only know my old stuff.
Some weeks later, I invited coworkers over for Friday night pizza. Karen was the first to say yes.
“I’ll get to see your armoire!” she squealed.
“It’s a wardrobe.” I reminded.
“Of course.” Karen said.
Friday evening arrived and with plates full of pizza, we launched into small talk and office gossip. Everyone, that is, but Karen. She was only interested in inspecting my wardrobe.
“What a fabulous vintage mid-century cedar wardrobe!” Karen felt obliged to confirm. She smiled her approval, and then suddenly looked down at her feet.
“Wait. This appears to be an American folk art style hooked rug, likely from the 1930s.” She leaned down for a closer look and glanced up at me. “Did you pick it up from a specialty shop?”
“No, I picked it up from my mother’s hallway.” I laughed. “I told my mother I liked it so she rolled it up and gave it to me. It previously belonged to my grandmother who decades earlier rolled it up and gave it to her.”
“Of course.” Karen said.
She eyed the small table in my hallway. “What an absolutely beautiful mahogany telephone table. And matching chair!” she noticed. “Did you find them at an auction?”
“No, I found them in my grandmother’s spare room. She used them for decades and always told us grandkids about the funny things she’d overhear while making phone calls back when party lines were common.”
“Of course.” Karen said.
The show-and-tell process continued as Karen moved from room to room examining my old stuff. She finally stopped in front of the rusty handheld pruning shears I kept on a shelf. This time she didn’t make a guess or even comment. She simply pointed at the shears and waited.
“Oh.” I took my cue. “They were my grandmother’s and I keep them to remember her love of gardening.”
Karen actually smiled. “Does everything have a story?”
“Of course.” I said.
We rejoined the pizza party and later as people began their goodbyes, talk turned to weekend plans. Somewhere in the chatter, Karen was asked if she would hit the antique shops in the morning, her well-known Saturday routine.
“No.” Karen tapped her chin with her forefinger. “I have enough of those.”
The room fell silent in disbelief.
She looked towards the rusty old pruning shears as she spoke again.
“What I need is some old stuff.”
Stuart M. Perkins
Storyshucker 