Antiquing & Daydreaming...Again!

Why, you ask, do I add the word 'again' to the title of this blog post? Well, because, several months back I wrote another blog post entitled Antiquing & Daydreaming and I didn't want to confuse it with this one. You see, the first time I was antiquing around my hometown of Sheboygan, Wisconsin.

This time around however, I was antiquing in Negaunee, Michigan - in the U.P - which was considerably better than drab and monotonous Sheboygan. :-) My family and I hit up a total of three antique shops in one day, and all on the same street! Needless to say I was in a blissful place while my brother invariably gripped with every new store we went to. He's never taken the time to understand the sheer inimitable treasures antiques really are. There's just a certain ambiance about a room when it's lined wall to wall and floor to ceiling with antiques of every size and shape. I feel like I'm stepping back in time, reliving the days of yore that I so yearn to experience. Sometimes I reach out to touch, feeling the elegant curves of bone china plates, admiring the richly ornate millwork carved into the wooden trim of a Victorian fainting couch or love seat. Other times it'll be an old dresser, my captivated expression framed within it's elegantly curved mirror, as if offering a portal to what it's seen.

Often times I ran across little knickknacks and tchotckes layered upon every available surface, each seemed to pull my eyes towards it until I found myself spinning in circles, trying to absorb the room in it's entirety. I felt each room was encompassing a different world, whispering of times when the antiques were pulled from cupboards or shelves for every day use, instead of out on display. A time when the thread barren cushions of the elegantly ornate Victorian furniture received tired bodies after a hard day's work, but which now stand silent, testiment to a bygone era.

Now perhaps you may think I'm reading too much into it. Chances are, with the writer in me incessantly taking hold in every aspect of my life, I probably am. But that has always invariably been my habit in life. Too dig deep into everything, drawing out expansive meanings and hidden messages where apparently none could be found. But this habit, per se, only exemplifies itself more so when I find myself around antiques and historic houses or buildings. Fortunately for me, two of my greatest and most fiery passions were brought together like two rivers leaking into an ocean at the old bank building in Negaunee, Michigan where it's three floors were lined, packed and stuffed with antiques of every kind. I had stepped into pure bliss, and never wanted to leave.
To me, the combining of a historically significant building and even older antiques was quite possibly a fantasy I had played out in my mind for years. In Sheboygan, I don't get around historic houses much so needless to say, again, I was basically lost inside my own head the moment I stepped onto the antique hexagonal shaped tile and underneath a huge, original transom atop heavy wooden doors. May I add that nearly all of the old bank's woodwork was unpainted, which was another factor, a major one at that, feeding my growing fascination with it. Only one room had painted woodwork on the window molding, but since that room was packed with white doilies, white furniture and basically everything else white, the painted woodwork went with everything else.

The bank's first room was where the check-out desk was set-up. Also in the room were two antique chairs and two glass-fronted display cases displaying random trinkets and such. Being a historical house buff I immediately spotted a prominent newel post across the hall. I would've walked right over to see it, but the room in front of me pulled me forward. More unpainted woodwork and wide, over sized windows greeted me, almost making me forget about the antiques scattered throughout the space. Wood floors creaked below my feet as I continued walking through doorways, bringing nostalgic images to mind of one of the many charms of historical buildings and homes.

Speaking of charm, albeit the old bank building was conspicuously rundown and in need of obvious repairs, I still found a way to peel back the layers of dilapidation and see it for it's true elegance, and what it once was. Since it was at one time a bank, I walked into many rooms that had smaller ones off to the side that sported heavy, metal vaults. Some of these vaults held antiques, while others merely stood open, their doors swung wide as if taunting former would-be robbers who could never crack its depths. Most of these smaller rooms also sported old-fashioned schoolhouse lamps hanging from antique metal chains.

Throughout the entire building I split up with my Mom, while my Dad and brother navigated at their own pace, which was habitually faster than that my Mom's and my own. I found that I couldn't overlook a single item, no matter how big or small it was. Of course the fact that I was looking for old skeleton keys to fashion a necklace out of had a lot to do with it. But mostly it boils down to my fierce detail-oriented and attention-to-detail personality. Upon entering any room, whether chock full of antiques or not, I find myself having to look around, I feel a need to acclimate myself with my surroundings. But place me in a historical building with rich woodwork, antique fixtures and haphazardly placed antiques...that habit kicks into overdrive. I knew I could've easily spent much longer than I did in each room weren't it for my Mom continually pulling me out of my head and on to the next room, where I only fall right back into the routine.

While, in the end, I didn't find any skeleton keys, I ended up buying a brass necklace with blue flowers on it that my Mom had spotted on an antique dresser top. Which wasn't so bad because both my Grandpa and my Aunt ended up giving me a few skeleton keys of their own, a nice start to that necklace I plan to make. The generous frosting on the cake you ask? Seeing one of the most beautiful, unpainted cherry wooden staircases I have ever seen. Sure, the newel post was a simple block shape with a square finial and more than it's fair share of skid-marks, and yes, the balustrade wasn't much better and the stair treads were covered in faded pink carpeting...again, I looked past all of that to what the staircase really was. A gorgeous, eye-catching centerpiece of the old bank, where undoubtedly a thousand or more pairs of hands have slid along its worn banister, and heard the same old stair treads complain loudly underfoot. The bank's second floor was just as appealing, offering up more transoms, original woodwork, over sized windows and even a small bathroom that exuded all the charm of yesteryear.

The truth was, for however long my family and I weaved in and out of the labyrinth of rooms, large and small, in the old bank, I felt inexplicably at home. Perhaps it was the atmosphere or mood the unpainted woodwork or haphazard array of antiques and their affect on me. There's no mistaking that I was lost both inside my head and imagination the entire time. Surrounded by so much history and different eras I simply would have found it silly to fight the waves of nostalgia. Perhaps such emotions stem from my habit of basing all of my short stories off historic homes, often using them as the foundation upon which I build the story upward, always drawing back to the base for strength. Or it stems from my passion for antiques in general, and the ambiance they exude. My Aunt, whom I mentioned before, lives on a farm with a 19th century farmhouse. Albeit I don't make it out there as often as I would like to, whenever I step over the threshold I instantly feel at home, as if a part of me just out of reach except through my writing undoubtedly knows that I belong in such a place. A lady who's horse rescue farm I visit also lives on a farm with a historic house. There too I feel at home.

Perhaps one day I will step over my own persona threshold. That which exists between the imaginary historical houses I sketch within my mind and on the pages of my stories in which characters live and the historic house I myself hope to own one day, if only for the reality that all of my stories will come to life, and I will have a literal historic house to base them upon.

Just like coffee or a quick jog in the morning, I believe there are certain things that stimulate us all to release our deepest passions and yearnings in life. For me, I undoubtedly know, that stimulating factor, per se, is historic houses and the rich, undying inspiration they provide me with in my writing each and every day.

I leave you with one question: where does your own source of inspiration lie?