The kids were kind of amazed at the idea that we could order by mail an entire household of brand-new items. They had a great time poring over the pages and pointing out all kinds of things we should probably have. I think the shine and polish of brand-new appliances and furniture must seem thrilling to my kids, whose house is filled with furnishings of exactly the opposite nature.
I will freely admit that my obsession with vintage might be bordering on pathological. It would be unusual to find a single significant piece that was purchased in the last 10 years. Heck, I am not sure there are very many pieces that were even purchased by ME.
Most of the things that surround me in my home are hand-me-downs from the people we have loved. And every item has a story attached in some significant way. It gives me great comfort to run my hand across my grandmother's table; to wrap myself in an afghan my mother hand-knitted; to put butter in Grandma Dee's butter dish, to drink water out of colored aluminum tumblers from my great-grandma's farm house.
Part of it is a return to my childhood, I think. I used to sit at my Grandma Bartscher's dressing table, delighted at her matching brush and hand mirror, charmed by the silver turtle pincushion that sat on the corner. I remember the crystal bowl she used to serve red jello with bananas, and the green glass lamp with a big brass key that sat on the end table next to the couch where I slept. When you turned the key, the light in the glass threw a ghostly green glow on the floor. One more turn and the brighter bulb above in the shade clicked to life. Grandma always left the green light on in case I needed to get a drink or go to the bathroom. She would check on me in the middle of the night without fail, and in the glow of that green lamp she would tuck the pink velour blanket down around my feet.
I loved that lamp passionately, because I associated it with my grandmother who I loved passionately and lost far too early. And when it was time to clean out my Grandpa's house, I made sure I brought that lamp home. I think a modern designer would shudder at the look of that lamp, but I could never part with it.
I am lucky that I married a man who not only understands this about me, but shares my passion for staying connected to the past. When we go fishing, he brings Grandpa Ted's fishing tackle on every trip. Ted's fishing bifocals are still in the box, and Emma loves to put them on when she is tying tackle. I know that when Aaron smiles at his daughter outfitted in those goofy glasses, he doesn't just see a goofy 9-year old. He's looking through her, like a window to the past where his grandpa sat in the boat with him, tying tackle and teaching him the ins and outs of catching fish. How could I ever replace them with a pair of plastic store-bought glasses, made from a mold, pressed in some factory somewhere and labeled with a bright yellow $9.99 sticker?
I see so much more value in the depression-era quilt that I picked up at an estate auction for five bucks than I do in the down comforter I purchased online for $59.99. I don't even know who made the quilt in this case, but someone somewhere spent hours upon hours hand stitching a scrap quilt, likely created from pieces of their life: a torn dress, an old work shirt, a sheet or a tablecloth. That quilt is batted with real wool, shorn from a sheep - not pressed and filled in a factory in China. That quilt is hanging on a wooden quilt rack my husband made for me himself during our first year of dating. On top of the shelf are three glass bells that came from his grandmother's house and offer a quiet reminder of that great lady who loved him.
What do my children see when they look around our home? Do they see the worn edges of the buffet in the dining room? Do they see the chip out of the edge of that serving bowl? Do they see a stack of blankets that are certainly used, definitely faded, and unraveling a little at the edges? Maybe so. It shouldn't surprise me when they come home from someone else's house and ooh and ahh over their "really nice house." We probably don't have the same "really nice house" that lots of other people have.
I wish they could see what I see. When I get out that serving bowl, I see the hundreds of meals I ate at my grandparent's table. That buffet has traveled through three different family homes, the most recent being my own parents, and has survived many dramatic adventures. And those blankets - well, if you've never made an afghan or a quilt by hand, then you probably have no idea what those mean. I don't see the faded colors, I see my mother sitting wrapped up on the couch, crochet hook in hand, talking about her day with my dad and trying to finish one last row before she heads to bed.
Even my own wedding ring has a story. (Actually, I have 2 wedding rings, and they BOTH have a story.) When I went to look at rings with Aaron so he could get some idea of what I liked, I just never had that pull toward those gigantic sparkly rings that so many women are fond of. They seemed so out-of-place on my hand; like they weren't real, even though the price tag certainly said otherwise.
We went to several jewelers, and finally we stumbled on a small private shop in nearby Salida, Colorado. I just had a feeling when we went in there, and I walked over to a case filled with vintage estate jewelry. My eyes were immediately drawn to a small white gold ring with a square-cut diamond surrounded by intricate engraved scroll work. The jeweler explained he got it from a local woman who had passed away and he purchased her jewelry from the sale of her estate. He knew her personally; it was her wedding ring, and she and her husband had been married 60 years. They had no children to inherit her pieces; he had considered her a great personal friend, and was pleased to be able to pass on her jewelry. I will never forget what he said to me: "she lived her life with great integrity. It was an honor for me to know her." And I knew right then that that ring was meant for me. I knew that the simple, vintage piece with a meaningful history was so much more suited to me than the flashier rings that I had previously seen. Aaron seemed incredulous that this was what I picked out at first, and actually tried to dissuade me. (I think there must be some kind of pride factor involved with what kind of a ring a man puts on a girl's finger, but THIS girl ain't buying that line.) I insisted this was the ring for me, and that is the ring he gave me.
What about the other ring? Well. Outside of Buena Vista is a beautiful mountain called Mt. Antero. It is a mountain with many veins of precious metals and gems lining its interior, and most of it has been privately sectioned off into mining claims. Aaron had gotten friendly with a couple of locals who had mining claims, and he spent some time mining up on Antero with them. It just so happens that my favorite gemstone is aquamarine. And it just so happens that Antero is full of uncut aquamarine. As a surprise wedding gift to me, he gave me a matching aqua ring, necklace, and earrings set in white gold.
The aqua ring is the first spontaneous piece of jewelry he's ever given me; it was mined from the mountain I looked at every morning in the backyard of our first home, in the town I still love desperately. I wear the aqua ring daily, as a reminder of his unexpected thoughtfulness and of our connection to that place.
I watched the kids pore over the pages of that catalog with great amusement, but I felt little pensive at the same time. I want them to understand the value of things that stand the test of time; I don't want them to feel the pressure of "keeping up" with the neighbors or trying to out-shop or out-decorate or out-accessorize their friends. I also don't want them to feel like they live in a thrift store. (ha ha) So I think I need to tell the stories and let them know that these older pieces are pieces of lives that were lived in a time long past. They are threads to the people who made us and reminders of our history.
I will say, that the Kitchenaid Stand Mixer my parents gave me as an early-Christmas present definitely kicks butt over the Black and Decker Dinosaur I'd been using for the last 10 years. So not EVERYTHING has to be old. (I did order it in Vintage Blue, circa 1950, because I still have an image to maintain.) And I've been eyeing a beautiful microsuede sofa sectional for the family room, but so far I just don't have it in me to trade out the white leather sofa we bought in Missouri. The stories from Missouri are of a completely different nature, and while we don't mention those 8 months all that often, the couch is maybe one of the better memories from that crazy adventure. I'm saving that story, though, for another day.
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