I was in my element last Friday afternoon, exploring the grounds of a 19th century farm getting ready to hold a sale the following day. Wagons were piled high with old textiles and furniture, antique tools and kitchenware, and truly unique pieces that I will likely never see again. (Of course, I forgot to take a picture of the wagons)!
Everything was so well cared for -- oil-polished tools that were no doubt used unfailingly; cut dress patterns folded back inside of envelopes as though they'd never been opened. Some of the items were initialed, inscribed. Mary’s winter boots written neatly on the shoebox of a vintage pair of Clarks. (Yes, they fit me perfectly).
There was a real sense of purpose and pride of place no matter where you turned. You could see it in the eaves of the settling but sturdy barn, the broom-swept concrete floors of the original farmhouse, the fence posts that had never been left to rot.
In a large way, I was sorry to see a family's belongings taken out of rooms and buildings because I know that it requires a special kind of person to love each item again as much as they were loved before. I hope that I can be such a person. I hope that I can take as good of care of Mary's winter boots as she did.