~ There are many things I love, and for which have no use.
When I look around my home I am reminded that I have gathered far too many things. Certainly I have many more things than I need or deserve or should reasonably desire. The consequence of an eye for novelties is clutter in perpetuity. And yet, I continue to acquire. I wonder if I do this as a relic of some subconscious and vestigial compulsion – the ancient hunter or gatherer causing me to venture afield and find things of some value to bring home.
Mere shopping does not satisfy the compulsion. Grocery shopping – though resulting in actual sustenance – does not the trick. Neither do department stores. My recent occasion of exploring a shopping mall left me rattled and feeling very old and out of place. Further, I do not crave simple acquisition, but instead the pursuit of what is difficult to acquire. I love thrift stores. Walking the aisles of an antique shop is meditative and restorative. An estate sale can send me into ecstasies.
When exploring antique stores that are organized into individually managed stalls, I believe I can understand something about the personality behind each collection. At a glance, I often discern a theme tying together the relics. Their interests, tastes, and style are laid bare.
~ A favorite stall at a local antique shop.
When I begin to scan the rows and piles and shelves I am not yet sure what it is I am looking for. As often as not, I find something I never knew I needed. Certainly I have general preferences – things that tend to catch my eye are borne out of tweed, dark woods, worn leather, and antiquated sporting accouterments. Well-kept dress shoes for men are a rarity, as men tend to wear their shoes to tatters. It is easy to reason that there is room-enough for one more necktie. Certainly I would consider anything with an Edwardian theme to it. But what is best about these items is that they are uncommon and unexpected. I do my best to regulate myself.
~ A tweed riding cap that required a great deal of discipline not to purchase.
My compulsion is quite obviously genetic. My mother’s desire to hunt and gather curio was of a proportion impossible to overstate. Her favored hunting grounds were garage sales and estate sales. A nearly weekly ritual in the spring and summer months, she organized hunting parties in which she and her friends roved and rummaged through the obsolete belongings of other people. Early on, she’d found most things she might want for herself and for which still had space – so she began taking orders for other people. It was her claim that if you were looking for a thing, she could find it at a garage sale in two weeks’ time. I once thought I would stump here with a formal top hat. She had it the following week, including the box. It was a Brooks Brothers.
I don’t recall originally expressing an interest Brownie Cameras, but I, while hardly noticing, amassed a rather respectable collection. They simply started showing up. I suppose the interest was projected onto me as my mother found in me a willing recipient. Nevertheless, these cameras are now among my favorite treasures.
~ A small portion of my Brownie collection.
On weekend mornings while driving about, I sometimes pass the sign for an estate sale, and no matter my schedule or responsibilities, the sign calls me like a Siren’s song and I follow in a Coleridgean trance. I should pause here, though. Entering another person’s home to pick through their belongings can be a bit of a ghoulish endeavor if not handled properly. Every time I step into someone else’s home for a sale, I do my best to make the experience solemn. I tread lightly and move as unobtrusively as possible. I remind myself that I may be surrounded by family or the bereaved. When I see a shopper tear through dresser drawers like a jackal eviscerating a lamb, I grow indescribably uncomfortable. After all, these things comprised a person’s life.
Estate sales are a window into the existence of another person. Laid before me are the elements of daily routines like dishes and cutlery, workbenches and tools, furniture, clothing. Within these artifacts are a person’s routines, traditions, and joys.
I recently visited an estate sale that felt immediately familiar. I’d not seen any of these things before, but the things were of the sort that I’d want for myself. I walked around the home marveling at what I saw, feeling that I would be very comfortable living there. The heavy, darkly stained wooden chairs were beautiful, but I had no room for them. The antique ammunition crates were interesting, but what use were they? There were neckties galore, but how many do I truly need? Though I toured the home without intending to actually purchase anything, I enjoyed being in the space. I thought that this gentleman and I could very well have been friends. I ended my tour in the basement among the gentleman’s reserve clothes racks – those things that clearly were not part of his everyday life. Most of the things were gone, except a few worn-out barn coats, hunting jackets, and such. However, there was a dry-cleaning bag that remained, a bright pearl colored shiny bag that begged to be opened. Inside I found a thing that I had long wanted but could never find. Something antiquated almost to uselessness. I pulled from the bag a beautiful white dinner jacket. I held it up for inspection – it was nearly perfect but worn in just enough to invite further, guiltless use.
People standing around the basement took notice and encouraged me to try it on. I have a rule about jackets of any sort – if it is not remarkable and does not fit perfectly, I will not buy it. I simply have too many. My arms slipped comfortably through the sleeves showing just enough cuff. I brought the lapels together and the jacket buttoned just snugly enough. The length could not have been tailored more accurately. I did not flourish with a spin, but I could not help but revel in the encouragement of my fellow shoppers.
I left the home with something I certainly did not need, but prize dearly. When I look at it I wonder – to what sort of functions was this worn? What experiences or adventures were had with it? Could the original owner have imagined that this jacket would see many more?
~ My new, old dinner jacket.
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Admittedly, there was inspiration for my want of a white dinner jacket — a story that has interesting origins.
Gentleman Afield 