Days like today full of rain and bluster, remind me of a trip I took to a historic home as a child. I can't tell you the name of the estate that had been converted into an art gallery, but I can tell you they had a huge portrait of Boy George. That colorful, beautiful, and somewhat scary image imprinted itself into my seven year old mind, and I can still remember the contrast between Boy in all his pop glory and the muted tones of the hall he resided over. It was a wet sloppy day and the house felt cozy despite it's grandeur as the rain pounded against the window pains. I had to go to the bathroom, and as usual, I had held it until it was an emergency situation. My mom led me from room to room until we stumbled upon a corner bath. She waited outside as I fumbled with the antique lock. Fascinated by the old plumbing, the pull chain toilet, the radiator, even the small tiles below my feet I lingered and imagined the many lipsticked faces once reflected in the crackled mirror. Despite my shorts and muddy tennis shoes, I felt like I was part of something beautiful and mysterious. I came out of that bathroom with not only a relieved bladder but a little more sophistication. I think my love of antiques and the stories they tell was born that day in a bathroom!
Now, I sit in a shop surrounded by ghosts. Items come and go, and while I'm only with them for a short while I delight in listening to the tales they share. Of course, these yarns are fueled by my own imagination, but there is a grain of validity in each of them. The Victorian sofa nestled in the corner is covered in velvet so soft and devoid of marks that I assume it was reserved for Sunday visits only. Guests privileged enough to sit upon it's cushion perched nervously upon the edge while they balanced their teacups upon their laps. The lady of the house would dream she could shed the bounds of her petticoat and granny boots and lounge across the sofa draped only in pearls and feathers.
No matter where I look in the shop, there are gloves and military hats, aprons and elixirs, all with stories that precede my own. It makes me wonder what might whisper of me someday? My flat iron perhaps? Only time will tell.
