An emerald among a pile of diamonds

There is nothing more rewarding than antique shopping. Well, there are some things that are pretty damn satisfying, like building a tree house in that huge Oak in your neighborhood or suddenly realizing that you need to get off at exit 5 on the NJ Turnpike before it's too late. However, when one takes the day off to browse around and possibly purchase vintage life, it becomes hard to think of anything more worthwhile to do with your time. This morning, it was decided between Mama Trems, Sister and I to scope out antique furniture for my room. Since I've been home, I've done a bit of redecorating in the form of freeing my room from the hideous corner piece that I've had since I was about 7. I was always in love with it and refused to update my existence because I felt it was a part of me. And it's true, that corner bookshelf was a part of me especially because it had seen about 23 different coats of my favorite color paints spanning from under-the-sea turquoise to lilac to bright red with an orange undertone. I didn't get rid of it because honestly, I knew nothing better existed. After 12 years, I've realized that it's ok to grow up a little...(I won't mention how I have an attic full of stuffed animals :/ bahaha)

So this morning, we set out to find Kimmah some type of new desk or shelf or bookcase or something of the sort. I need some place to stick my laptop and my books, cause I've got a plethora of reading materials. We went to this beautiful shop on Main Street in Medford. Three floors chock full of life. I would glance through old comic books and then flip through racks of flapper inspired dresses. I saw homemade throw blankets with ugly orange embroidery neatly jumbled on top of an old sewing machine and table. I enjoyed the smell the most. It's the smell of worn out leather mixed with a little excitement lightly seasoned with salt. Walking through the old renovated house with secret stairwells and closets that reach the puffy clouds, you can just imagine life way back when. After no luck at Medford's antique shop (everything was either out of my price range or too fancy for my room) we travelled on down to the city of Burlington to a place called Emporium. Holy Moses, this place was incredible. You walk in the store and immediately, you are greeted by a Goodyear Tire sign that was probably from the 1950's. They had individual compartments that they rent to people who want to sell their "goods" so the three of us had a massive task that lay ahead of us if we wanted to glance through everything. Well we pretty much beasted the Emporium with our furniture finding strategies and we were 100% successful. You wanna hear about the new addition to my room?...well let me tell you. It's not a desk. It's a Depression era (1930's!!! WOOHOO) small kitchen table that was probably used for rolling out dough or setting up a wash station. It is incredible. The table top is porcelain enamel. It has a beautiful azure blue border that fades into the off white top but what makes this "desk" so special are the four raised roses that fall at each corner. There is a single drawer that I'm sure held a whisk or family recipes for oatmeal cookies, but will now hold my paper clips and notebook drawings. The legs of this table are solid wood that have been painted an off white color. There are paint chips missing off of the legs that reveal wood and parts of the enamel are rusting and wearing away. I cannot believe I found such a good buy. For $70, I purchased an entire life. Who's to say that my new desk wasn't once the center piece of a family. Picture this: it's the middle of a hot summer day in Oklahoma. 1935. A mother is rolling out dough for biscuits to accompany the beef stew on this table. The flour that was sprinkled down to stop the dough from sticking gets in every nook and cranny of the raised pink and green roses that keep the four corners occupied. There are children outside playing with marbles on the dry earth while their father waits patiently for any sign of rain to fall from the unforgiving sky. As everyone goes about their business, huge clouds of dirt move through the flat plains raining down on a man's only way to earn a buck. Forced to go inside and find relief from the blackened skies, the children must gather around their mother, eyes closed with their noses buried in her cotton apron, while she too is huddling except instead she is above this table in hopes that the dust will not disappoint dinner's sidekick.



When I brought this table into my room to set against my wall, I cleaned the top with soap and water, but made sure not to scrub too hard. Who's to say when I wiped the dirt off, I wasn't wiping off years of that family as well. If I look hard enough, I think I can see some flour caked into the grooves of the roses.



In the beginning of this post, I mentioned how there was nothing more rewarding than antique shopping. I still believe it. It is one hell of a way to connect yourself to the past. Run your hand over a baby blanket and imagine how warm it kept an infant when the heat from the fireplace just wasn't enough. Hold a postcard in your hand that has been signed and dated, and read what it says. You will instantly feel like you're right there with "Buddy" at Niagara Falls when he tells "Dotty" that he'll be seeing her back in Sacramento in a few months. Look up at the painting of a vase of daffodils and try to picture it in the parlor of a Victorian style home. Was it above the china tea set or did it grace the walls next to the grand piano? The result of imagining life eighty years ago is so satisfying in the realm of your own existence. I know that there is a story behind this table, and now I can make my own story. I am so inspired to create my own memories with everything I own, but I'm more excited to know that others will be imagining down the road. Hopefully this kitchen table turned desk serves a completely different purpose in a century for some girl and her family. And hopefully she can imagine the stories about this blue and white, flower printed, rusting table prior to her own tale.


Can you see my table? I can.