COLUMN: Don’t Mind the Mess – Old things

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 29/09/2024 (225 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I was an old soul long before my grey roots started making their appearance. I’ve always been drawn to antiques and all things vintage. Along with libraries and thrift stores, I feel most at home in museums, where the musty smell, faded paint and cracked textures reveal years of use and care, and every piece makes me wonder who owned this object, and what kind of story comes with it.

Whenever a school field trip included a museum tour, I was always the weird kid lagging behind, touching and handling items with “do not touch” signs on them, asking the tour guide questions, and wishing I could spend full days and nights in this glorious place, where all the ancient, and once cherished pieces called out for my attention. I would pore over old newspapers or imagine myself preparing dinner or baking bread in the vintage kitchen displays, with geraniums in coffee cans lining the deep window sills.

But as my mom, who had grown up with these items when they were new and still functional, would say, they’re not that precious when you’re actually using them. In fact, whenever her family bought a new appliance or piece of furniture, the old one would get tossed out like garbage, and the idea of restoring it, or going to an auction sale and paying good money for things like sewing machines, washing machines, and radios that don’t work anymore was preposterous.

Years ago, my grandparent’s estate sale would have been a treasure trove for any collector today, but so much of their stuff was sold for a song, in exchange for newer, better and shinier. Their old Mennonite housebarn in the village was filled with antiques that collectors would drool over now and would pay a pretty penny for.

“We just saw them as old,” my mother said. “Why would you keep something that’s rusty, doesn’t work or takes so much effort to use?”

Turn the clock forward a few decades, and today, everything seems to be labelled as an antique. Items I grew up with in the 70’s, in the classic avocado green and harvest gold colours, are priced higher than when they were new. It kind of makes me wonder if I’m an antique, too. Has my value increased?

I have two old floor model radios from the 1930’s in my living room. The old tubes that kept them going burned out years ago, although the old dials still turn. It’s been decades since either of them emitted any sound, but they have their charm. I can picture little children in flannel pajamas gathered around them, listening to Little Orphan Annie before they’re whisked off to bed.

Maybe my love of old things reveals a longing for simpler, less confusing times. Maybe when you have more years behind you than ahead of you, you start to see the treasure in not just things, but in the people around you.

I love antiques. Something can be old, but it can be timeless. Something can cease to function, but still be cherished.

I don’t care that they’re chippy and old. I don’t care if it’s faded, rusty, or worn. I love the story behind it, and the history within it, and the patina on it.

It lasted, and it survived the ravages of time, just like a lot of people.

And maybe that alone deserves our admiration and our love.