Chapter 1
Saturdays Antiquing
As a kid I went through several phases, probably more phases than most people go through in a lifetime. I went through a vacuum cleaner phase, a weed-eater phase, a Volkswagen beetle phase, a Johnny house phase, a custard phase, a cooking phase, a spinning wheel phase, a woodstove phase, a Victrola phase, and a pump organ phase. The last few were sub-phases of my most prominent phase, the antiquing phase.
Most people think antiquing is a pastime for lonely grandmothers who venture to the Ivy Cottage antique store on Saturday to sift through velvet couches, tea cups, and cameos, which is pretty accurate.
When I was six years old, I joined the ranks of grandmothers who flooded antique stores on Saturdays. I don’t remember how or why I became interested in antiques, but it happened after I became interested in old Volkswagon beetles when I was five years old. My dad bought me a small model Volkswagon. I thought it was so strange that the motor was in the back, and a trunk in the front. I loved playing with that car, and imagining that I was driving around, opening the small vent windows that made cars cool before air conditioning.
Around this time, Volkswagon introduced the “New Beetle.” People around me thought that I’d love the new car as it was a revival of the car I longed to own.
I hated it.
That car made me realize the separation between old and new. People were falling in love with this bubbly golf cart, and I was distressed. People would point to a lime green “new Beetle” on the street, and say, “Look Eric, it’s a beetle.”
That annoyed me. What really irked me about the 1998 beetle was its shape. I loved how the old beetle was shaped, with the back seamlessly sloping to the windshield. My 5-year-old self believed was the epitome of great design, and the new beetle ruined it.
This realization, however, had another effect. I became interested in old things. I realized that the things we used every day are new, but that older things — and often more interesting things — came before. Before my Fisher-Price tape player, people used record players to listen to music. Before that, they used hand-cranked Victrolas, and before that they used cylinder records, which began my interest in Thomas A. Edison (another phase) who I decided to dress as for Halloween in first grade.
My love for old things soon exploded beyond my love for the Volkswagon beetle. I was putting antiques on my Christmas list, and in 1999 Santa granted my wish with small table radio from the 1930s. A note beside it said that Santa had found the radio left sitting on a shelf in the North Pole, but he knew my engineer dad could fix it. So my dad did, and in a matter of hours, the tubes were warmed and we were listening to Christmas music on 99.5 WMAG.
My desire for antiques could not be satiated. I became desperate for a spinning wheel. I’d beg my parents several times an hour for a spinning wheel, which I’m sure drove them just short of crazy.
I had this dream of spinning wool into yarn in my playroom. Heaven, for me, would be sitting for hours pumping the treadle as the machine twisted a pile of dingy yarn into a usable thread. I didn’t need anything to do with the thread. I just wanted to spin it.
At the same time, my dad really wanted me to learn to ride a unicycle. My older brother Craig had learned a few years before, and my dad had enticed him to keep practicing riding the unicycle with prize markers. He saw an opportunity.
My dad put tape on the floor in our bonus room — one piece at 10 feet, another at 25. Once I made it to 10 feet, I could go to the antique store and pick out a small prize. I tried for hours, eventually getting rug burn after my 7,000 time trying to pedal our tike-sized unicycle from the edge of the couch to the first marker. But I really wanted another antique to add to my collection.
After about a week, I was elated. I had made it across the first line, so, of course, a trip to the antique store was set for Saturday. Because it was only ten feet, I was limited to something small. I picked out a small red caboose oil lantern.
I still wasn’t satisfied. I wouldn’t be satisfied until I could get that spinning wheel, the wooden beauty that had, to my chagrin, recently been placed on display in the antique store’s window.
I kept trying, but 25 feet is a long way when you’re seven years old and you just learned to ride a bike about six months before.
One day, I remember bursting into the kitchen screaming.
“I can get a spinning wheel!”
My parents must’ve thought it was crazy that their first-grader was so obsessed with spinning wheels he would go screaming around the house. I quite literally lost my mind. I had conquered the world, and now, I’d be able to produce yarn in our bonus room.
That Saturday, my dad took my to the antique store, but once we got there, he thought it would be a good idea to look around, just in case there was something better.
We were taking a lap when we passed a Victrola. The storeowner walked over and gave us a demonstration. She cranked the record played, pulled over the arm, and set the needle down, summoning a beautiful symphony accompanying an equally beautiful tenor. The music was exciting, probably from the 1920s, and I couldn’t believe this machine could make such exciting music without being plugged into the wall.
That put me past my spinning wheel phase, and before I knew it, my parents were wrestling this singing monstrosity up the stairs and into the antique corner of our playroom.
To me, the Charmaphone was beautiful. The antique store clerk threw in several binders of 68 records for free, and my favorite song was from 1926 called Tamiami Trail. (Although, due to the sound quality, I thought Gene Autry was saying “Tammy-Anna” trail.)
My collection of antiques grew to fill my antique corner, and I had the best pieces for show-and-tell of anyone in the class. Each week, I’d bring in some strange new antique. One week, I brought a hairdryer from the 1920s. I convinced my teacher to let me plug the hairdryer into the wall, and she obliged, even with its blatantly exposed wires. Fortunately, I was neither electrocuted nor started a fire.
Eventually, my interest in antiques waned. I entered into news phases like cooking, and the already dusty antiques collected more dust, but I still appreciate antiques and am a faithful viewer of Antiques Roadshow. I still get giddy watching "Tiffany" appraisals.
I’ve also held onto a fascination with history, and more specifically, historical objects and places. My first jobs dealt with antiques. The first being at a historical house museum, Korner's Folly, located in Kernersville, North Carolina. My second being at the Digital Heritage Center in Wilson Library at UNC-Chapel Hill. I spent many hours last year, scanning and digitizing historical documents.
I worked at the intersection of the past and present. Making the old new again through high-tech scanners and digital cameras. I was more than occassionally surprised at the objects I handled. From the oldest and most fragile deeds from 1789 to maps that were at least 10 feet across and required several people to "capture."
Sometimes, when scanning documents, my hand or reflection would be reflected into the glass and make it into the final picture. I like to think I left my mark on history.
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