Vintage Vibe

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

My love affair with the patina of age blossomed early in my childhood. Despite my mid-century Boomer upbringing, I have always enjoyed the opportunity to converse with earlier generations via the treasures that surrounded me at home.

My brothers and I often referred to our house as The Museum, as Mom mandated these precisely placed mementos off limits to our younger hands. As their sole curator, Mom delicately dusted them each week, rearranging vignettes to suit her fancy or the  particular season. Without extra cash for decor trends, they provided her both artistic medium and creative license.

What these objects taught us was not just custodial duty, but a fondness, appreciation, and respect for our family archives. We were the fortunate benefactors of several meticulously preserved keepsakes; a testament to the priority of our kin to propagate their chronicles. Now an adult and free to touch them at will, their palpable vibe continues to transmit its multigenerational magic to this day.

My daughters humorously roll their eyes at my romance with milk glass, silver, crystal, teacups, old linens, and faded black and white snapshots of yesteryear. What these young ladies fail to realize is this pairing is embedded in our historical DNA and will, in due course, surface with reckless abandon when they least expect it.

The expression of my sentimentality came without warning in my twenties. I started bawling so badly during tender movies that my husband eventually refused to take me.

The wide angle view, however, was that my heart was opening, and our domestic surroundings began to morph to reflect that shift. What lay dormant now opened its wings and took flight, breathing renewed interest in these souvenirs of our past.

Ancestral artifacts were unpacked, dusted off, and grouped in displays. Our first apartment was small, but filled with the warmth of those who had travelled life’s journey before us. Everything in our home had a back story, and I, their enthusiastic narrator.

Heavily used objects have rich stories to tell and I, the eager listener. Touching the past coaxes unbridled joy, so much so that friends will even pass tokens from their families to me, knowing I will give them their proper place in the mix. It’s a privilege to have these beloved strays bequeathed to me. And, a sidenote here, a penchant for the worn and imperfect has been a healthy redirect for my perfectionist tendencies as well.

Old silver luxuriously reflects the glow of candlelight, gently scattering its shimmering allure to softly glamorize anything in its path. Polishing these pieces is not a chore, but a rhythmic meditation providing clarity and calm. As with life, luster may fade with time, but the charm of comfortable usefulness will persevere and offer a relaxed beauty.

A set of glassware from the argyle era patiently waits for cocktails, the rounded glasses nesting perfectly in my petite hands. Kitschy yet practical, they generate smiles as well as offer portion control.

Old linens, depression glass, and coordinating china from both sides of the family grace my holiday tables. Despite their formality, they easily tango with today’s festivities, mixing and matching in ways even they never anticipated.

A chalkboard in the kitchen hails from a 1930’s schoolhouse, complete with the discovery of simple arithmetic scribbled on the back. This command center now is privy to lists of daily tasks and needed groceries.

My most cherished Christmas ornaments are the Shiny Brites that once graced my Grandmother’s small tree. Her arthritic hands would help my petite fingers carefully place each one, followed by our combined effort to arrange a gossamer ring of angel hair around the base of our masterpiece.

Historic buildings also resonate deeply with me. From castles to log cabins, each domicile and its associated trappings explain more about our forebears than any history book.

This texture of the past is what excites me, whether caressing the stone walls of a fortress from the 1400s, pitted pewter wares, facets of an antique glass holiday bauble, or the stitches of an antique quilt.

My rural father instilled an affection for barns, country roads, utilitarian implements from kitchen to field, and, of all things, outhouses. A beautiful book about these unique spaces occupies coveted real estate on a bookshelf, a loving sentiment from Mom and Dad penned inside. Sharing Dad’s simplicity, one of my guilty pleasures is to take the long way home from anywhere, the sprawling landscape and farmsteads providing a soothing salve for a harried day. A deep breath of country air grounds me in ways nothing else can.

Serendipitously, one of my daughters is also starting to share this passion for the visual feel of the open road as a freeing respite.

Unlike my mother, I believe in letting little ones carefully touch the past and hear the tales that go with. The seeds of antiquity have to be felt in order to take root, be venerated, and bloom.

Ancestors anxiously await our loving use of their possessions. Whispering to us through utility, this blending of past and present adds depth to, and enriches, our contemporary existence.

May we all dust off historic vestiges, give them pride of place, and share their stories. The seasonless threads from our predecessors offer the underlayment for our own lives. Disposable trends will never approximate this honorable, woven legacy loomed by the tincture of time.