More About Packrats

I didn't wake up one day and decide to start collecting things. Oh no, this disease is hereditary. My mother was an antique dealer. She would sell a chair right from under us if someone wanted to pay the price. BUT, if they didn't pay what she thought it was worth, it was sealed in the tomb of "I'm not selling it because it's worth something." She did a fine job of instilling this notion in our heads, but we reinterpreted it to mean, "If it's worth something to me, anything to me, I should keep it." When I say "we," I mean me and my sister. My brother had his own problems.

Lynn and I seemed to have caught the same fever. The difference between us was resources and patience. Lynn was able to really go to town. I loved her taste, her generosity and envied the support she got from her husband. We both loved books, bowls, sets of plates, pottery, antiques, cooking utensils, bedding...I could go on. But there was no competing with Lynn in this regard. She was the winner. Her husband, Joe, was not only patient, but did a fabulous job of creating the perfect storage space for most of this stuff. On the other hand, I had to equip visitors with ladders and repelling gear to get over my stacks. But I developed a particular knack for filling every crevice, which is why this moving adventure has become more difficult than the last.

Our mother is now 85. She would not hesitate to go to a tag sale or to hold a tag sale. It doesn't get better than finding a good buy or selling a good buy for 20 cents more than you paid for it. It's intriguing to me. She has a non-attachment to these items that I immediately fall in love with. Growing up, one week there would be French Provincial furniture in the living room that we couldn't sit on (and I'd love it) and the next week there would be Italianate furnishings (which I'd fall in love with and couldn't sit on) and then something "normal." I wanted to keep it all. I wanted to sit in it all. I wish those living rooms, set in a small early 1900's farmhouse, were captured in photos. I'd share those here in a heartbeat. I got stuck in an antique weir.

Which leads me to say that I can't be held responsible for any of the hanging-on that I do. And I can probably extend this, metaphorically, to my marriage. I like the commitment of longevity. Let's find it; let's keep it. Let's sit on it. I guess furniture and hearts aren't so very different.

Take this bowl. Please take this bowl. Is this gorgeous or what. I think it's Japanese. It has a nice drawing on the bottom that I'd share, but posting these photos has been onerous. I never use this bowl. I don't display this bowl. I never take it out of the cabinet. But I love this bowl. Do I pack it and move it? Or is it time to let it go? I should point out that this was one of those pieces that I inherited with a chunk taken out. I didn't mess this one up. You don't really have to vote on this bowl. I already packed it.