Yesterday morning, I set out all by myself, excited to go to an annual antiques market in the rolling, country side of northern Virginia. I had never been to the show before and was excited to shop a new venue because I'm gearing up for both of my barn sales this month and need some pieces to fill in what I already have. So I set out looking for things that appeal to me.
I didn't have a plan for what I was looking for - I never do. I guess it's the auction girl in me; you just never know what you'll find so you can't go intent on finding something in particular.
Well the antique market was down a gravel road, in a beautiful field, and surrounded by mature oak trees. As soon as I drove in, and took in the scene, my heart started racing because I was so excited to embark on the hunt. Once the gates opened, I ran in and beelined it to a tent that looked promising. And that's when the disappointment set in. The prices were outrageous! Sky-high, ridiculous! But that didn't deter me, I just moved on to the next row of tents, but quickly discovered the prices were the same.
I'm not kidding when I tell you a small painted step stool was $125. A gilded mirror was $6,000. A feedsack covered chair was $1,250!!! A gilded birdcage was $7,500!! Don't get me wrong, there were absolutely beautiful things there. Fine, heirloom quality antiques. The kind of pieces you see in museums and homes like the DuPont mansion.
It's just not me. Maybe I like my "antiques" like I like my friends. A little less pedigreed, chippy, time-worn, but still full of life, well loved and with a deep soul that speaks to me. Nothing spoke to me yesterday. It was all spit and polished. Beautiful condition. Gleaming like they've never seen the inside of a real home. Because the stuff inside "real" homes, at least in my world, gets used, loved and treasured.
What I saw yesterday was only what you look at. Not to be touched. How can you love something like that?
Take me to a junk sale, flea market or country auction. That's where I feel at home.