I'm trying to convince B that we should start going to auctions.
He pooh-poohs the idea, pointing out that there are hordes of antique buyers here*, and that it would be like me to lose my heart over something that would skip merrily through our price range.
He's probably right. But I love that sort of thing, poking through boxes and forgotten corners, finding something that I never knew existed and envisioning the perfect place for it.
I grew up, you see, in a house filled with treasures my parents found. Re-finishing, painting, modifying. One of my favorite pieces of furniture (and one of the few I brought with me) is a cabinet that my parents found in an alleyway when they lived in Chicago, listing drunkenly against a dumpster, needing some new molding and glass and someone gentle to remove the nine coats of paint that were marring its nice lines.
B wants new things. Things that haven't been owned, that he can look at and think 'There is noone who has sat at that desk until I did'
while I fondle old cane-bottom chairs and Mission-style rockers and think 'I wish I knew your history.'
And plot for the day when I'll have beautiful, aged wood and clear colors in my house.
*And there are. Antique dealers come up from the New England states in droves with big old trucks.