Rockwall, TX (October 20, 2023) – I have a friend who frequents thrift stores. She recently shared a photo of a treasure she had passed up while on a foraging expedition. The photo showed a red, green, and blue snowman, crafted of Playdoh, with perky yellow buttons, requisite carrot nose and a winsome sky-blue derby. Poor fellow, forever encased within an upside-down canning jar, is relegated to a lonely shelf in a thrift store. I’d have been impelled to bring him home. He reminds me of someone I brought home, nearly ten years ago, from an estate sale at someone else’s home.
I am an estate sale junkie. It’s difficult not to turn the car immediately on seeing a curbside sign “Estate Sale.” These past three years, I’ve been busy downsizing and settling into this home. Many treasures have been passed on to family and friends or donated as I have pared down what remains in Mildred. (Our home is named Mildred.) Make no mistake, despite (an ongoing) culling out of impedimenta, Mildred is plumb full of delightful, vintage items. I’ve not had much time to get back into estate sale-ing and have restricted myself, determined to live within my space and not have a garage and closets packed with unused items. Discovering wonderful finds in old homes and bringing them home to new life is an addictive activity.
Now that we’ve settled in, and there is dust on the baseboards and marks on the walls, I find myself considering a few things. Things like wallpaper, fresh paint, and estate sales.
I am enchanted with old neighborhoods; you know the ones. Treelined streets that curve, homes nestled into shady coves, autumn leaves scattered across lawns. Driveways that ramble back behind, bonus points if they are gravel. I can usually tell, walking into the front door and getting a sense of the surroundings, if a sale is one where I might find a treasure. Old things, items with a patina, old books are tough to pass up. Not every home presents an item to snag and carry home. Still, many of my favorite items in our home, once belonged to someone else.
I recall one sale that a friend and I nearly passed by, at the end of a long day of treasure hunting. We pulled up, looked at the small dwelling, weed filled planter boxes, broken concrete steps and bare shrubbery, debated; then with some doubt, decided to take a quick peek. Enchantment was immediate at stepping through the portal. As we walked through, I began to feel that I knew the woman who had left this place behind. Not literally, but I knew her tastes, her whimsy, her desires, her spirit wafted about me as I perused belongings she had left behind. I know she hated leaving that place. In the bungalow with a depressing curb appearance, was a home with windows stretching across the expanse of the back, filling the room with sun motes, looking out onto what had once been a well-tended garden. Beautiful hip height bookshelves had been built under the windows, filled with old books, china, lamps set on top. An affinity for antique chests was evident, several were scattered about. French doors led to a reading room with comfy chairs to sink into, a small fireplace, brick floors and more books. Living areas and kitchen held dishes that would have delighted my mother and did so for me as well. Blue and whites, classic pieces, drawers of silver place settings, carefully ironed table linens stacked neatly in armoires. Items from travels filled walls and tables. Though there were no personal photos in view, I could picture her. I sat down near the fireplace for a good while, soaking in her aura and regretting that I had never, somehow, wandered into this neighborhood and known this woman. I knew we were kindred spirits. I gathered up one of her lovely chests, some linens, and a small unique wall mirror. Crafted of metal, petite, round, the mirror set into decorative prongs, glass tarnished and worn at the edges from time, had been displayed with travel items and I imagine she picked it up in Europe. Old, well patinaed, a thick, time-stained string stretched across the back in lieu of the original hanging wire, it hangs in my bedroom. The wooden chest is in my long entryway and holds Christmas ornaments. I am reminded of a woman I never knew every day as I enjoy her pieces in my home.
This is how estate pieces affect me. Items that someone loved, their histories, I bring into my home and continue the affection and appreciation, perhaps as much as they did. There are far too many of these things in Mildred to tell you all their stories.
But there is another unique piece, reminiscent of the clay snowman my friend photographed. I was in a picturesque, old home, in that tree lined neighborhood, crunchy gravel driveway and leaves blowing. The home had two stories with a third story attic, built out. Up in that attic room, which stretched the length of the home, were creaky wood floors and pine walls. Clearly a playroom for children that had morphed into a teen hangout in the 50’s and 60’s, time stamped by the phonograph and soft, worn LP covers, old magazines and pinned up news articles. The room was filled with old story books, board games carefully kept intact, school pennants on the walls, assorted trophies, baby dolls, puzzles, all vintage. The browse was delicious. My eye caught a small, red framed square. A child’s drawing in red pencil on manilla paper had been framed. The plump centipede with an engaging smile grinned out at me from behind the glass, multiple legs dropping down from his body with feet attached. The price was less than a dollar and my heart broke looking at the piece that some mother or father had loved enough to frame; but had fallen through the cracks of descendants pulling out the heirlooms to keep and leaving the rest behind to sell. I brought home that little guy in the red frame. He was the cornerstone that I used when, at our old home, I decorated a room for our grandson to sleep in. His room and that of his sister, are now combined into one guest room in Mildred. The red caterpillar hangs just inside the portal of the room. I smile each time I see him, glad he took up residence in our home, carrying an unknown memory.
Maybe I will check the estate sale listings next week and just take a quick look around.
Sally Kilgore is a resident of Fate, Texas, transplanted from Rowlett, across the lake. She is married to her long-time flame, Judge Chris Kilgore, (aka The B.O.B.) When not writing, gardening, filling in at the local flower shop or hanging out with grandkids, Sally devotes her time to serving Bob Kilgore, a well sized, Tuxedo cat with panache. You can contact Sally at SallyAKilgore@gmail.com . Please visit her website: SallyAKilgore.com
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