It was Thanksgiving Day, twenty-five or so years ago that my dad photographed Matthew in front of the antique chest. He had been crying. Perhaps it had something to do with the bow tie, suspenders, and knee socks. Yes, I seem to recall that it did. Anyway, it was on this same chest that my mom first taught me the miracle of Old English polish.
I'm a sucker for vintage floral prints. They needn't be expensive and I'm happiest when they're found hidden in a heap at our local thrift shop. What a thrill it is to pull the velvet Elvis print forward and find a little beauty just waiting to be loved. I don't believe the nicks and scratches are always there at donation time. Most likely, it has to do with the rummaging that goes along with thrifting.
Very slowly, our library is being transformed. The walls were painted a soothing shade of gray, and we recently assembled a storage unit so there's ample room for books and things. I'm letting the space evolve, rather than trying to pull it all together at once. It needs to feel good because I spend a lot of time there. The vintage floral print came home with me last week. The moment I saw it I knew exactly where it belonged. It needed a bit of spiffing up with my trusty bottle of Old English polish, but now it's good as new. I'm swooning over this one.
