Vintage Stories

I’m not a collector of specific things.

There may be an exception or two. I add a new snowman figure to my Christmas display every year. I have more books than shelves on which to place them. Cats have infiltrated the scheme of every room in my home. My décor attests to eclectic interests related only by the moment in which each inanimate companion connected with my heart or my imagination and created an indelible impression.

A new item adopted me over the weekend. I visit vintage shops not with intent to buy, but for the pleasure of perusing shelves filled with evidence of bygone eras; once-loved pieces of since-deceased puzzles bequeathed to descendants or friends who lack the space or the time to tend them, and so they sit and wait, memories with price tags, for a glance from a stranger to whom they might matter once more.

Several years ago I discovered an Asian apothecary in a vintage shop in a nearby town. It sat on the floor under stacks of books and folded table runners. I walked past it twice before looking down and stopping in wonder at my first encounter with a beautiful story spoken in a language I could not understand. I relieved the little cabinet of its burdens, my husband carried it to the checkout counter, and we paid its ransom. The delight in redeeming a unique treasure is tempered by wanting so much to know its story and learning that no one, not even the vendor, can share any information about its past.

I enjoy its presence in my home. It captivates my attention and curiosity, and somewhere deep inside, a small piece of my heart weeps with the wishing that it could tell me from whence it came, to whom it belonged, where they lived, what they believed, whom they loved, how they conducted their work and their family and their daily lives. And how, and why, their apothecary came to be forsaken in a neglected corner of an antique store.

Fast forward to this weekend; the apothecary gained a friend. In another vintage shop in another nearby town, as we walked through one last display before heading for the checkout counter, it whispered, and I heard and gave it my attention. The small Asian cabinet has seen better days. The wood is scuffed. A crack mars one side. It is missing a few of the ornamental pieces that define corners of drawers and doors. But it breathes with narratives lost in time. Mystery is all it has left to offer. But that is more than enough.

I pray that we always ache to know the stories of strangers, in whatever form they enter our lives. The desire to touch, to learn and connect and relate, is what translates each of us into all of us. It isn’t always necessary to have every detail explained, to know every word between the beginning and the end.

Sometimes the warmth of a silent presence touches our imagination with stories beyond ourselves, imparting the meaning of life with a message we somehow understand in spite of words unspoken.