Day 278/365 Gambling Pays Off

Sunday I decided to flirt with disaster and take the van to estate sales. For once Murphy's law took a vacation and we found one sale at 50% and the second at 70% off. Meaning this beautiful chest of drawers, cica 1920, is now in the booth. The doors open to reveal two drawers, and the mirror on top tilts.

The 70% off sale yielded this gorgeous 1900 Art Nouveau dresser - intricately carved details, massive, heavy - this one almost ended up at home in the permanent collection.

Both of these dressers literally went in the van, and straight to the booth, with only a loving coat of orange oil applied to freshen them up.

We also took this little half moon table from last weekend's sale - also from the 1920s, it came from a sale where the most prized possession of the owner was an autographed campaign poster of G.W. Bush, Jr. Displayed prominently on opening day, it was still there at lock-up on closing day. Didn't even move at 50% off. And we're in Republican country.

Sometimes though, the treasure comes in pieces and needs a little more than orange oil.

Even when it has feet with golden claws.

Sometimes the pieces need to be put back together. And there's a possibility that the missing piece needs to be cut out of completely new wood, so that the top and legs can be reunited and make a happy table once again.

Of course, because we took the van, we had plenty of room for the 40" framed collection of early 1900's photos of twins.... but that's another post.

Day 277/365 Puzzle

Every Friday and/or Saturday morning, we start out for a round of estate sales and yard sales. The eternal question is "do we take the van or the car?" Translation: Do we want to take out a loan to fill the tank (as of today $120.75 for one tankful) or do we want to gamble on being able to fit whatever we buy into the four door sedan?

Last weekend we took the car (currently costing $62.10 to fill). It is an impressive little vehicle.

The trunk holds all the safety flares, tire inflators, jumper cables, took kits and emergency equipment this mother requires her daughter to carry *PLUS* a cooler bag, 2 -40 lb bags of cat litter (still early spring here, with possibility of glare ice), a 1930's bedside lamp, large retro lamp shade, a vintage brass night light with small shade, a 1940's pie plate, a white 1930's iris ceramic vase, cookbook (for me) called Le Bouche Creole, a small chalkware planter, and a folding mahogany table with drawer on four carved legs.

Meanwhile the back seat holds a full-size repro coffee table and an electrified hurricane lamp (wrapped in my sweater).

Floor of back seat holds four commemorative plates, stuck in between books because (once again) I forgot to put newspaper and bubble wrap back in the car for transporting, as well as a large heavy lamp (the one that goes with the shade in the trunk).

All made it home safely.

Even the white iris vase.

Oh - forgot the framed woodland print, circa 1930's. Can't remember where it ended up - probably behind the kitty litter.

And after estate sales, we even had room to stop and pick up a treat for Sherlock the grandsnake......Frozen Fuzzies!

Murphy's Law for estate sales: If you take the van, you'll find nothing worthwhile. If you take the car, the estate sales will be loaded with antiques worth millions, each priced at $1.00.

Day 276/365 Necessary Distractions

My mother is the daughter of a sharecropper. She grew up in the heart of Appalachian poverty, stuffing newspaper into the walls to keep in the woodstove heat, and wearing dresses out of flour sacks. With that upbringing, she had no real understanding or interest in antiques or "old stuff".

So, it was a friend of hers that took me to my first auction forty-one years ago when I was fourteen (I'll wait while you do the math). I fell in love with the entire idea of owning pieces of history and started buying everything from American Primitive and antique cameras to vintage jewelry and 1930s chinaware.

Eventually my 930 pieces of Blue Ridge dinnerware (plus Ebay) saw us through nine months of unemployment.And I started selling off storage bins full of collectibles. Twelve years later, I'm still selling,on both Ebay and Amazon, and I'm still buying.

As of a couple months ago, I moved into selling in bricks-and-mortar antique malls, opening my first booth. My partner created the name Three Graces, and the inventory comes from both of us. She's the doll collector (I tore the heads off my Barbie's), and I'm the china and assorted memorabilia person. Only a couple vintage books made it here -I prefer to keep those online.

Then last weekend, I opened a second booth, about 30 miles away (and across a couple mountains, so it's further than it sounds). This was the opening set-up with everything that fit into the van and a trailer. That's an unused 1950s Lane cedar chest in a fruitwood finish, complete with the original promotional paper that came with it.

The tablecloths laying the cedar chest were hand-crocheted by my mother, out of fishing net, while she sat on the shores of Lake Bangwelu in Zambia in the early 1970's. Are you asking "how can you sell those"? We have others. She spent a *lot* of time on the shore at Lake Bangwelu, and Lake Tangiyika, and the Zambezi River, waiting for my dad to finish with his students. Hours of tablecloths...


The other side of the booth is retro 1949's and 1950's: boomerang tables, metal and ceramic lamps, rattan Eames style chair, and some 1980's Mickey. And lamps - I love vintage lamps. I have them all over my house: some 1950's, some 1940's, some 1930's. The lamps on the mantle are 1940's, the ones on the end tables are 1959 (I grew up with them - they were the first "new" lamps my mom and dad could afford to buy). All are newly re-wired, courtesy of my daughter,
who, hearing me say "oh, it needs new wiring" , stepped up and said "I'll figure it out." She nows re-wires all my lamps for me.

Within 24 hours two large pieces had sold and so we had to round up another vanload and fill the empty spots (this is a good problem). They are difficult to see but to the left and right of the fireplace mantle sit solid oak colonades, each with it's own original oak column. We actually found these in the attic of our previous home in Minnesota, removed by original owner when they remodeled at the outbreak of World War II and became a boarding house for war brides. I had always hoped to put them back in their original places, but then the house was purchased by the college next door. They had no interest in restoration, so we brought the colonades and columns with us.

Eventually I'll run out of corners and storage areas to pull stock from, but it'll probably be awhile. Meanwhile, there's a couple estate sales tomorrow that I'm checking out....wish me luck.

Day 275/365 Mardi Gras Redux...Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler!

****I'm Back...and what better day than Fat Tuesday or Carnival, better known as Mardi Gras? Below is the 2009 Mardi Gras post, mostly because I've been snowed under both with massive change as well as tons of work - but really because I love that photo of the Purple Man Mask.... I really should be posting from The Big Easy..there is no fairness in life...Enjoy!********

*Originally posted February 2009

It's Carnival Time again! Mardi Gras actually started on Twelfth Night, January 6th, and runs full steam until Midnight on Fat Tuesday, this year February 24th.

I credit my fairly laid-back social views to a lifetime of more-than-a-few Mardi Gras seasons. You can't grow up watching transvestites and grown men dancing in feathered costumes without being affected on some level.

You also learn a certain amount of tolerance when your home is invaded by millions of people annually, usually for the last three or four days of Carnival (fortunately the visitors don't realize the parties actually string out for three to six weeks).

Mardi Gras is famous for its parades, there's always several going on somewhere in the city. For instance today, February 19, there are three. Tomorrow there are five. Parades are full of huge, colorful floats, the most incredible, complex, outrageous floats you can imagine. Each float (and sometimes the whole parade) is sponsored by a krewe. Krewe can loosely translate into "club", and several have been around since the 1800's.

My own favorite krewes:

Krewe of Rex: This krewe picked the famous Mardi Gras colors of purple, gold and green, besides thinking of the idea of collectible Mardi Gras doubloons. The very first doubloons were thrown out in 1960, which just happens to be the first year I was deemed old enough to go to a parade.

Mardi Gras Indians: Traditionally the focal point for New Orleans Black Mardi Gras, now front and center, and famous for their intricate beaded costumes worth thousands of dollars. The "Indians" name was chosen to show the black respect for the native Indians of Louisiana, who would help slaves escape during ante-bellum days. You can also see the Indians parade on the Sunday closest to St. Joseph's Day, March 19 (this year March 22nd), in an afternoon parade that starts around Orleans and Bayou St. John, and goes who-knows-where-from-there. Like any other Mardi Gras Indian parade, the exact route is not designated, and twists and turns through the city.

Krewe of Proteus: Totally themed on Egyptian mythology, dates back to 1882, and the second oldest Krewe

Krewe of Thoth: Named for the Eyptian god of Wisdom (he invented science, arts and letters). To me, letters means the written word, or books. You know I had to love them. Dates to 1947, before my time.

Krewe of Okeanos: Okeanos is the Greek god of oceans and valleys -very important when your city is perched on the edge of the Gulf.

Krewe of Cleopatra: Founded during my college years in 1972, the first all-female Krewe in the Westbank.

Krewe of Iris: The oldest and biggest all-female krewe in New Orleans proper, originated in 1917, and parading since 1959.

And Chewy's favorite:

Krewe of Barkus: the only krewe by and for canines of all types.

The krewe names alone conjure up mystical events and mythological gods: Adonis, Argus,Zeus, Isis, Hermes, Aquila, Jason, Morpheus, Muses, Chaos, Centurions, Nemesis, Rhea, Ancient Druids, Excalibur, King Arthur & Merlin, Pegasus, Caesar, Sparta, Shangri0La, Pygmalion, Gladiators, Ponchatrain,and so many more.

Most krewes have their own royalty. This lovely lady is the 1959 Queen of the Krewe of Troubadours.

Traffic rolls to a stop in both the French Quarter and Uptown, as there is always a parade starting (or ending), and the floats line the sidestreets, waiting for their turn. Floats can be huge carrying hundreds (literally hundreds) of riders. In 1994, the Krewe of Orpheus set a record (at that time) with 700 riders on a single float.

The Krewe of Bacchus carries the various celebrity monarchs and is known for its elaborate floats (and its great souvenirs -thrown indiscriminately to the crowds who are shouting "THROW ME SOMETHING MISTER!")

Many people don't know that Mardi Gras was actually first celebrated in Mobile, Alabama -mostly because they were settled before New Orleans. Approximately 30 years later, New Orleans started in on its first Carnival, and proved to be much better than Mobile at partying, carrying on all night, producing the necessary strange and bizarre personages, and maintaining a live-and-let-live year-round spirit of total debachery.

Let The Good Times Roll!

Day 274/365 Homesick

Being part of a Southern family means hearing incessantly about where the ancestors were from.

As in, normal dinnertime conversation may center around great-great-granddad and whatever he did back in 1800.

As if he is sitting at the dinner table with you, accompanied by every generation that preceded him.

This peculiar practice is repeated a thousand fold if your family roots lie in Scotland.

I have clear vibrant memories of watching my great-grandmother (a tiny bird-like woman, always dressed in Victorian black)eating her lunch and telling us stories of Scotland, as if she had been there the week before. She made sure we knew the brilliance of the green hills, how the thick fog rolled off the peaks, and how the sun broke through on the loch.

She made sure it was regarded as our homeland, no matter how long our family had been in America, or who we had intermarried with.

She made sure we knew which ancestor fought in which battle, and which chief led the clan from when to when, and what led to the removal of our clan's lands, and why. She made sure we knew the reason an old set of bagpipes sat in the corner of the closet under the steps, and why the the Fourth of July saw hundreds of tiny American flags in the front yard, intermixed with tiny Scottish flags.

It wasn't until I was much older that I learned she heard all those stories from her father and mother, who heard them from their father and mother, all the way back to 1632, and the original emigrant, who was torn from his family and his mountains and sent off to the colonies as the ultimate punishment. His wife was thrown out of her home and branded, his children were bashed against walls until they were dead, and their home was burnt to the ground.

Yet somehow, over time, the original imigrant made sure that the beauty of Scotland was what most important in family memory, rather than revenge. This was the reason for the dinnertime stories full of legends of the Children of the Mist, Rob Roy MacGregor, William Wallace, Robert Bruce and the many now-nameless Highland men who disappeared over those green mountains while fighting for Scotland's freedom from the Brits and their clan's very survival.

After my great-grandmother passed on, the stories were then repeated by my great-aunt.

Now I repeat them to my daughter.

Someday she'll repeat them to her children.

Just as if the ancestors were still sitting at the dinner table.

Day 270/365 Oldest House in Richmond

So driving through Richmond the other day we stopped to look at this 18th century house and found this beautiful courtyard.

The little stone house came complete with window boxes, with ravens perched on the front...

And dead flowers left laying in the courtyard.

Know where we are yet? No?

Here's a hint:

"All that we see or seem..... Is but a dream within a dream."

Still no? It's the oldest house in Richmond, probably built in 1737 (read the sign)...more importantly eventually bequeathed to the Edgar Allen Poe Foundation and now home to the Poe Museum.

Poe's foster family raised him in Richmond, and he last visited here two weeks before his untimely death at the age of 40 in 1849. Turns out, contrary to popular rumor, Edgar was not a drunkard - he actually had difficulty consuming much more than a half glass of wine, and that usually sent him to his bed with massive headaches. The exact circumstances of his death in Baltimore are still a mystery - he fell to his knees on a public sidewalk (in front of a tavern),
"in great distress, and... in need of immediate assistance". His foster family refused to acknowledge him. His physician assumed custody and provided care. Edgar was never coherant long enough to explain what led to his condition, or why he was wearing clothes that did not belong to him. He died 5 days later.

After his death, an obituary appeared in a New York paper. It's opening line: "Edgar Allan Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it." The unauthorized obituary would be followed by an equally unauthorized biography by the same author. The author turned out to be Poe's chief critic, a man with a long-held grudge. Somehow he ended up being Poe's literary executor, and he viciously painted Poe as a depraved madman, addicted to alcohol and drugs, even producing forged letters and diaries. That image turned out to be great for sales of Poe's macabre stories.

Except none of it was true.


To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness. (Edgar Allan Poe)

Day 269/365 Heavenly Road Trip

The building known to most mortals as The Library of Congress.



Known to me, a mere booklover and bookseller as Heaven...

Paradise...

Nirvana...

The Emerald City, so to speak.

Spent this afternoon there, at a special exhibition of Thomas Jefferson's Library. You know, the one Tom donated after the Brits burned our first Library of Congress in 1812, and again in 1814? I actually got to stand surrounded by the Jefferson books, all shelved inside enclosed climate-comtrolled glass bookcases, arranged in a circular seashell spiral pattern. In a wing of the Library of Congress. **Best freaking Christmas present ever**.

No photos allowed (hard on the books). Sorry. Also no touching allowed. Really sorry about that (more for me than you). Still, just being that close to Jefferson's books almost made me cry. They are the Holy Grail of books.

And the titles? Lots of French titles (Tom spoke fluent Francois. I do not.). As well as A History of Mineral Waters, Microsope Made Easy (publiished 1744), History of the United Provinces (that's us), The Workes of Sir Thomas More, Franklin on Electricity (yes, written by his friend Ben Frankin), Natural History of Zoophytes, and Every Man His Own Gardener.

And approximately 3000 more.

While I couldn't take pictures of Tom's books, I did get this view from a secluded alcove in the Library. That's the Capitol, and way in the background the Washington Monument.

Enjoy....