There are stories to be told in vintage goods and the things that others often donate, throw away, or take for granted. Sometimes the stories are obvious, yet most of the time, with only the signs of age and perhaps the remnant of a price tag or hand written inscription or other such cryptic clues to guide us, the stories are often left up to us to recreate, to imagine and reimagine as we see fit. It's these sort of existential footprints that I now realize draw me to vintage goods and handmade items like a mischievous little weenie dog to kitty poop. There is beauty in everything, but especially in things that make me think, remember, and reconnect.I remember the the desire to fill my insatiable pre-kindergarten appetite of mental stimulation as being the primary reason I would wander as a small child into my dad's den at the first house we lived in. The den, and the house, I am sure are much smaller than I remember it, much like the greenish gray encyclopedia I thought was the largest, heaviest thing on the planet. It was good for standing on to reach high places, good for pressing things, and good for tripping over it if I or my brother had so carelessly forgotten to put it away, as we so often did with everything. Dad's den was filled with books on topics I could have cared less about as four year old, but I remember looking at them, the rows of mad men era paperbacks and hardcover technical books, the blue Webster's dictionary that we would in later years have to use when we made the mistake of asking what a word meant, and the Charlie Brown Peanuts books with super cute old school Snoopy that I would read over and over again after we moved to our second house. From the eyes of a four year old given the restriction to not touch anything, Dad's books were awesome.
We moved again for a second time with even more books in boxes, including my own growing collection of dyn-o-nite dynamite magazines and other scholastic book club purchases. As empty nesters, Mom and Dad moved again, with even more books in boxes. In their current house, they have books overflowing not only in boxes but on every shelf and pseudo shelf imaginable. When my dad fell gravely ill a couple years ago, the flickering prospect of him needing clear paths and a healthier breathing environment gave me something to ruthlessly do while we hoped and waited for better news.
The weather and our life lately hasn't exactly been conducive to helping tiny chumley finish his Christmas ornaments by today as we had hoped, but luckily my work with books and metal have been brewing for, as tiny chumley would put it, for forever now. Which roughly translates to this past summer, when I realized I could give new purpose to the lovely thrift store books and kitchen countertop sample chips that nobody wanted anymore, and create new brooches with equally interesting backs, allowing meaningful connections for others. The same others who also coincidentally love dachshunds of course, who maybe like to show their love like I do, in a fresh, modern, retooled vintage sort of way. A way like no other.
