One of my mother’s “hate to miss” shows is The Antiques Road Show. My mother has been interested in antiques for as long as I can remember. I’ve been to innumerable antique stores, estate or garage sales, flea markets and thrift stores with her over the years.
I inherited the gene. I find meandering through an antique store as therapeutic as some people find meditation. I’m not drawn to garage sales or thrift stores, though.
Things aren’t what they used to be. Years ago, a garage sale might have an antique or two. We still have a hatrack we bought at one. And some depression glass we bought at another.
But many garage sale offerings now consist of things people would’ve been embarrassed to put out when I was younger – things they would have trashed, like stained clothes and broken appliances.
Quite a few antique stores showcase a mix of crafts, repurposed items, “vintage” or shabby chic, along with their antiques.
We have an ongoing flea market not too far from us. It is nothing but tchotchkes. People like tchotchkes as evidenced by the stocked shelf displays at places like Target, Walmart, and all the drug store chains. Selling at a flea market, I suppose, saves the vendors the cost of a brick and mortar shop. But it’s not the flea markets of my youth.
There are still some antique stores that sell only antiques. There are of course the upscale ones, where the proprietors ignore you, the furniture, vases (pronounced vahzes), and candelabras have exorbitant price tags – if they’re tagged at all. I like those stores too. But they’re like looking around in museums. They’re very interesting and occasionally I find a little something.
I once found a bowl with kind of high sides, decorated with a string of pink elephants at one such shop. A couple of years later I bought the same shape bowl with a Christmas design. The tag on that one said, Cocktail Ice Bowl, circa 1950’s? So, now the shape and pink elephant design made sense. And speaking of the 50’s, it hasn’t been lost on me that I am the same age as many of the antiques I like to peruse.
Browsing the upscale stores is nice but they’re not the ones my mom and I enjoy searching through. We’re not into Italian Renaissance, French Provincial, Louis XIV, or any Asian dynasty. We just like what we like – nostalgic, quirky, or interesting.
Over the years we both managed some fine furniture. Sadly, for my mom, many of her pieces were acquired when we were all still living at home. Five kids can be rough on furnishings. Some things couldn’t withstand the abuse. On one occasion, my stepfather put a couple of her beautiful carved oak washstands out on the curb when he was getting rid of old “junk”. They were snapped up before she could rescue them.
Shortly after Rob and I married, we bought a Victorian hallrack. The woman who sold it to us was cheerful, middle-aged, plump, and chatty. She first observed that we were one of those brother/sister couples. “You know, that look so much alike. That’s good luck!” she said with an air of self-adapted authority. She seemed so happy that her magnificent hallrack was going to a good home with Ying and Yang, as she referred to us when writing out a receipt. I know it’s yin and yang but maybe she was from Brooklyn?
It was a beauty, but it didn’t survive one of our moves.
We had a large Victorian sofa too. When Rob brought it home, I couldn’t picture what it was supposed to be. Pieces of dried, dust encrusted wood. Rob refinished it and upholstered it in non-traditional red fabric. I loved it but it was too big to bring with us on another of our moves.
Nice memories and we still have some of the pieces we picked up over the years. Other memories are of the ones that got away. There was an overstuffed chair that needed some tlc in one of the plethora of antique stores on Queen Street in Toronto. Some mission furniture at an estate sale on Long Island at an unbelievably affordable price, passed up because we were moving the next day. And an exquisitely detailed marcasite bracelet/watch with a peacock, tail down, wrapped around the watch face at a giant flea market in Pennsylvania. My mother volunteered to buy it for me because I didn’t have the fifty dollars to spend. But that was just too much money at the time. Actually, I prefer the memory, rather than being the owner of the timepiece.
I have lots of good memories of those markets in Pennsylvania. We lived in New Jersey at the time and the prices in PA were half or more of what you’d pay in NJ. Sometimes we’d stop at some places in the Poconos and occasionally we’d detour to a town called Brodheadsville and visit an old farm with a big barn full of bargains.
One of my favorite antique hunting places was in a chicken coop. A knowledgeable elderly woman owned the property. I imagined her huge white Colonial house on the hill must have been a gold mine of lovely old things. The coop was at the bottom of the hill, and I imagined it was stocked with overflow from that house.
There were no operating hours. She was only there when she felt like being there. She wore thick sweaters and funny hats. An old victrola was wound to play past melodies, as she busied herself behind an overladen desk or table. It was hard to tell. A response to any inquiry was often a history lesson. It was always a delightful experience when I made that trek down a winding country road and found there was a light on in the chicken coop.
I suspect my mom likes Antiques Road Show for those rare stories of finding a valuable work of art or collectible in an attic or at a yard sale. It’s like hitting the lottery, but it gives you hope that there are treasures buried out there, waiting to be found.
Whenever I go to a thrift store with her, I look at the artwork just in case. I don’t know if I could recognize a valuable painting or genuine piece of Native American pottery, but I have been able to recognize a fair amount of junk on those visits.
My mother and I will probably never find that Antiques Road Show bonanza, but we’ve each found some good treasures over the years. Many are memories.