Old Things - Like Old People - Have a Story to Tell

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 1^st 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.