I went and did it again

I went and did it again. Apparently, it’s a problem for lots of people. And in fairness to all of us, let me try to put a positive spin on what seems to me a compulsion. I’m a junker— yes, junker, not junkie. I want to be clear about that, but I’m not so sure that I’m much better off anyway. No harm, no foul may apply here as a distinguishing characteristic, however. In my universe of buying and selling vintage and antique goods— buying more than I sell actually— a couple of salient questions and comments directed to me along the way come to mind. “Do you think you’re a hoarder?” No, honestly, I don’t. “Harold, just because you like something doesn’t mean you have to own it.” True, but, oh, the temptation when it’s somehow within my reach. “Instead of buying more, why don't you try to get rid (oh, how I resent that spin on the holding of treasure) of some of what you already have first?” That’s not all that much fun. “Can you make money off that?” “You make your money in the buying.” Ouch, I know that’s true, but sometimes when something calls me, I feel like the guy in the short joke who was cautioned by his doctor, “the next time you and your wife feel like procreating, why don’t you ask yourself, ‘can we support another mouth’?…the guy’s reply, “when I feel like procreating, I feel like I can support the whole state of Georgia!” And so goes it with buying just one more thing— a thing that speaks to you, wants to be with you at least for awhile, something you hope in the end might turn a profit for you. It’s the speculator in me, it’s hope springs eternal, it’s the adrenalin rush of treasure hunting, and in some instances, it’s the savior in me.

The truth about the temptation to buy “things you don’t need” is relatively simple. If you don’t intend to buy, don’t go shopping. The mall, the general array of retail stores that dot the landscape in every American city of any size— that doesn’t figure much into my life. If I need underwear, I go buy some new boxers. I walk a lot, and periodically I replace my hiking/walking shoes. My jeans pockets eventually give in, and the knees wear out. True, it’s at this point that they become really, really comfortable. Realistically, however, they’re not appropriate for some occasions, especially on an old man. All these things— I take care of them and then I’m done. Treasure hunting? A totally different set of needs, challenges, and satisfaction.

To get to the point, for indeed, there is a point here. Yesterday, the savior in me was called into action. My friend Tom and I hopped into his small truck to hunt out yard sales. He’d already looked online at craigslist. Out of the chute, going in my 4Runner was not an option. It’s loaded with packing blankets and things that belong to a friend in Santa Fe— things I was unsuccessful in selling on my recent trip to Texas and the semi-annual Round Top Antiques Fair. My vehicle is otherwise engaged until I return her things next week. Not far from where Tom and I live around the corner from each other, we landed at a yard sale in one of the many good-looking neighborhoods of the Nob Hill area of Albuquerque. Pueblo taken modern, high desert landscape but with large shade trees. The offering wasn’t huge, but it was clearly interesting, including a folded, well-loved, as in damaged condition, quilt laying at the top of a storage tub that caught my eye. “Is this quilt for sale?” I asked. There began the conversation. Yes, it was for sale, a second and third quilt, also somewhat damaged, lay under it. And inside the house, two prize quilts, also for sale. The hook for me? They came from the homeowner’s family in central Texas— made by her great and great-great grandmothers. I was in up to my nose.

The condition of the quilts was from bad to gently worn. The salable ones will have to be gently and appropriately soaked and air dried, for they smell of being stored away. Their presence in the living room from where I write tinges the air with evidence of human sweat. The fabrics, colors and design all said “yes” to me. Did they pass the test— you make your money in the buying? Did their purchase answer the question— can you make money off these? No, simply— or at the best, only a little. Did they answer my need to wrap my arms around a piece of history? Yes, absolutely. It’s all in the journey, for me, and once again, the circle remains unbroken. I’m connected to the story of how we got here and how we get where we are going. I get to be the steward of some well-loved domestic artifacts. And though this stop on the journey is a little about making lemonade out of lemons, oh, how sweet the lemonade will taste.

In conversation with the owner of the quilts yesterday, she produced old documents about the family who immigrated to central Texas from Arkansas in the third quarter of the nineteenth century— adding a promise to share some part of this information with me via the internet. On my own, I have found one of the ancestors— possibly one of the makers of these quilts— on a genealogy website. The owner of the quilts and I talked, we shook hands and said “thank you”, each understanding that an important human connection had just occurred. "Serendipity," she said, smiling, echoing what I had said earlier to her husband. I knew as I was writing the check— not a small amount— that I was paying too much to expect a significant return on the money. Knowing that, I was reminded of one of my habits, a habit lying in evidence in the two-story barn I call home the little bit of time I spend in Texas these days. I have rescued a lot of valueless quilts from yard sales over the years. Usually I bring them home, give them a gentle wash, and air dry them on the clothesline. Then I just fold them and add them to the stack of mostly-unnamed family histories that I just couldn’t let end up in the burn pile, or relegated to a dog’s bed, or flapping and disintegrating in the breeze in the back of a pickup truck moving household goods from one place to another. Make up your own picture of what happens to things that are no longer valued. A mass-produced quilt made in China and bought at Wal-Mart, well, that’s a no brainer. A hand-made quilt, a true piece of Americana, lovingly made and passed down through the generations, and now entrusted to me by a member of the family, even though for an agreed-upon price, well, that’s a no brainer as well. I am honored. In my mind, there is no doubt that this connection of spirits, well, it was meant to be. And I am the better for it. Namaste.

R. Harold Hollis, Albuquerque New Mexico (April 29, 2012)