Antique’ing
in Montana is a dirtier yet much more rewarding job than strolling through our
fine shops of San Diego. A kaleidoscope of colorful junk I have no place for in
my world cries out to me over the cacophony of the voice inside my head telling
me I am in need of nothing as I pull over to the side of the state highway
because there is something there calling out to me energetically – but I
haven’t a clue as to what. Walking through the musty treasure trove of
Americana I feel as if the stuff could have come from just down the road
apiece, each with its own acoustic guitar theme song and sappy but gentle love
story. It’s not polished, perfectly placed or dusted. But there is a magic calling of the
imagination to times gone by as I run my fingers over the gently worn corners
of history. Picking up post cards from
the turn of last century and reading about visiting Glacier National Park as it
opened in 1915 is a vicarious thrill. I rest my elbows on a bar tucked away in
the corner of the old shed and am instantly transported to the saloons of Wild
West. I wonder with great humor who might last have taken a seat in that 125
year old red velvet chair that looks as if it could have come right out of a
bordello. Picking up a pair of hand-
carved wood skis with leather bindings puts visions of traversing the back
country in times long before chair lifts and ski patrol. Scattered bits of
history litter the yard outside the shop like gas pumps from the heyday of when
we use to drive automobiles to have a good time, not make good time, as
Lightning McQueen from Cars would say.
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| Our new old oak table! |
The
vibrancy of the colors, even those faded by the years of use and wear, the
smells, and touching old treasures makes junking a way of triggering childhood
memories whether real or seen in the movies. Opening doors of a cabinet that
was part of a family for a century releases what it has seen to those who can
see. The vibration of its history is palpable; the sounds come alive from a
time and room that is no longer. There
is magic in those vintage pieces and while much I was challenged to relate to,
many transported me to days of old. And in all the silence and noise in the
memories of others, I heard my calling as I glanced sideways to see an
unmistakable treasure, a 100-year-old table that told stories even as it stood
there still and covered in dust. The finest quality of oak, thick and signed as
only a handcrafted gem of these days would be. I knew at once, many card games
were played there, many cigars smoked, meals served and stories told. Children
grew up around that table and in the natural passage of time it was forgotten
out in the shed for many years piled high with junk. As I drove away with my
new old oak table for our barn’s game-room tied to the roof of my SUV, I visioned
the years that will be had around it in my lifetime. I know I will be as good a
custodian to this piece of history as those who preceded me and I’m excited to
add my vibrational stories for it to carry to future generations. Because, no
doubt, someday it will find itself in another antique shop, with another’s palm
gently running over the its worn edges and the energy of the laughter and life
our family added to the recipe of its history will just be the newest
ingredients to its finely tuned beauty. 