As the daughter of a junk man, I am a devout lover of all
things old.
After my daddy lost his leg to a deadly diabetic ulcer in
1985, he started his own business buying and selling antiques, collectibles,
and all kinds of vintage stuff. He spent
the next 26 years of his life reinventing himself just to survive
financially. In the process, he found
his true life’s passion in his little antique store, The Ole Poker, in Senatobia, MS.
He learned everything there is to know about old things – furniture,
farm equipment, pottery, glassware, silver, toys – you name it and my daddy
knew something about it.
Since I am my
daddy’s daughter and I love whatever he loved, my fascination with old things
has grown to the point of obsession. Daddy
taught me so many things about antiques – what markings to look for; how to
tell a reproduction from the real thing; and that one man’s junk truly is
another man’s treasure.
Most importantly, my daddy taught me to respect old
things. “If you look closely and listen
carefully, old things like old people will tell you their story,” he
said.
Recently, I bought an old chest of drawers to keep upstairs
for summer things that I don’t hang in my closet. Around-the-house shorts, t-shirts, swimsuits,
stuff like that. I believe the chest was
made in the early 1940’s, maybe ’42. It
stands about five feet tall and is made of mahogany with a beautiful walnut
banding around the middle and the original brass pulls and knobs. On the top of
the chest is a small vanity mirror crowned with a decorative walnut burl. The old mirror has no cracks or pecks, but it
does have enough smoke to make it interesting. There are no wood screws or
nails; the wood is dovetailed together. The
bottom four drawers are deep enough to hold every pair of shorts, every t-shirt
and every swimsuit I own – which is substantial. The top drawer runs the width of the chest,
but it is shallow and divided into three sections, maybe meant for dainty
undies or jewelry. I decided to put my everyday jewelry there – my watch,
rings, the three bracelets I wear every day, a few pairs of earrings.
My husband, Dennis, did a little work on the drawers to
make sure they slide freely and I cleaned it up with Old English – the miracle
worker of the antique business. I lined
the five drawers – 4 deep ones and a smaller jewelry drawer on top - with
pretty shelf paper and we hauled the chest upstairs to the guest room.
I gave the old chest one last swipe with my polishing
cloth, satisfied that it is perfect for the room and headed back downstairs to
finish dinner.
A couple of days later, I was upstairs looking for shorts
and a t-shirt, getting ready to go for a walk with my son, Drew. I took off my watch, bracelets and rings and
opened the top drawer of the old chest to put them in the jewelry drawer. As I lay my stuff in the drawer and was about
to slide it shut, I noticed a wonderful smell of old, rich perfume. Startled, I looked around the room, thinking
someone had come in. I saw the old iron
bed dressed in my grandmother’s chenille spread, the tapestry-covered settee
against the wall, and my ironing board (this is my designated ironing
room). I guess I was thinking that I had
spilled something somewhere in the house, so I didn’t think too much about
it. I closed the drawer and left the
room.
The next day, I was back upstairs and opened the top
drawer to retrieve a pair of earrings.
Again, my nose was filled with the sweet, heavy scent of an aged fine
perfume. I opened the drawer as far as
possible and literally stuck my nose into the bottom of the drawer. I could smell the rich, heavenly scent as
strongly as if I had just poured perfume into the grain of the wood.
I sat down on the bed, amazed at this discovery. Had someone lovingly tucked a perfumed lace
hankie into this top drawer and marked it forever with the scent? Who was she?
What was happening in her life when she did that?
Maybe she was wistfully awaiting the return of her beau
from Germany, where he was bravely fighting Hitler’s Nazi’s. Maybe she was listening to Tommy Dorsey or
Glenn Miller or Duke Ellington on her record player while getting ready to go
to work on the production line of the local war factory – a real life Rosie the
Riveter.
Or maybe she was a grieving mama anxiously waiting to
hear from her soldier son. Maybe he was a member of the 1st Marine
division fighting in the miserable island of Okinawa, the Japanese controlled
island where War Correspondent Edward R. Murrow said “the monstrous rain has
turned the island into a sea of mud and gore.”
Maybe she added a perfumed sachet to the pile of letters with strange
and exotic post marks from her son.
Maybe the last one arrived more than a month ago – before Okinawa.
Perhaps the beautiful old chest is not hers at all. Maybe it is his. I see him happily jitterbugging his way around the room to the
music of Benny Goodman on the old Philco as he dabs a more grease onto his
slicked back hair in preparation for his date with Betty Lou. The top drawer is where he keeps his socks
….. and the love letters from his girl, who sweetens her words with a few stolen
drops from the blue bottle of her mother’s Evening
in Paris.
I am brought back to 2012 by the sound of my son’s voice
at the bottom of the stairs calling for me to hurry up. I grab the first pair of earrings I see, take
a final sniff of the lovely scent and gently push the drawer closed.
My old, worn chest of drawers does, indeed, have a story
to tell and I enjoy hearing it every time I open the top drawer. Isn’t it so wonderful that the things you
love the most – your grandmother’s quilt, made from scraps of familiar
material; your mother’s rolling pin that flattened out many a breakfast
biscuit; your dad’s pipe – from which you can still smell his brand of tobacco
--- all tell the treasured tales of
lives lived. A life well lived always leaves little pieces behind for the
generations that follow. Like my dad, I take the time to study old things,
listening and looking for their stories.
And, they always make me happy.
I hope that one day, many years from now, someone picks
up a piece of my old Fenton art glass or one of my vintage tablecloths to
spread over my 1959 Formica and chrome kitchen dinette table. And, when they do
I hope that they stop a minute, look closely and listen carefully.
I hope they hear
my story and I hope it makes them smile.
