wideeyedfunk

Tag: antique flea markets

  • Aimless

    Aimless

    Yesterday evening I was lying on the front livingroom floor alongside the recently reupholstered Victorian settee. Alongside, and on the floor, because the settee was occupied by Hamish the Corgi. Hamish peered down at me happily, big ears casting wide shadow. I was staring up at the ceiling light and thinking about Hank. Hank owned a warehouse that he called an antique shop but the rest of us knew the truth. You could go in and shop, but the likelihood of leaving with anything was slim. Hank’s stuff was N.F.S., despite the inviting OPEN sign on the door.

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    Hank sold us that light. We stood under its near eternal hanging place in the rafters of the warehouse, the three of us, necks crinked, eyes raised, and commented on its probable age. Hank reminisced about his acquisition of it. We listened. Hank talked at length about its probable value – far in excess of the modest price on its tag. We listened. Hank walked away to talk with someone else. We waited. Hank wandered back. Matt talked about our old house. Hank listened. I was skeptical of the lamp’s age, value, and material composition. Hank listened. I named a price. Hank was amused.

    After a period of time, Hank firmed up a price and gave us a pay slip. We were to hunt down his wife to exchange fungibles for luminaries. No one was more surprised than Hank’s wife that he sold something. She took our check quickly, ink undried.

    Yesterday evening I was lying on the floor with dog ear-shadows and light-memories and a Yeti mountain bike rode by, Sweet Tibbit trotting along behind. I waited, listening to the squeaky sound of rubber tires on hardwood, negotiating tricky turns in the kitchen. The bike, the WideEyedSpouse aboard, went by again. As did Miss Tibbit

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    Such is the WideEyedHousehold on a Wednesday evening in November. Such is the WideEyedLife.

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  • Nothing Gets Done When I Have a Big Stack of New Library Books

    A person should never, ever visit the library on a Thursday, not if they want to have any kind of a productive weekend.

    Reading spot out back.

    I had Big Plans for last weekend. I was going to burn some paint off the woodwork in the bathroom. Mulch down the few garden beds still exposed to the burning drought-sun. Maybe clean the house. Mow the dry, brown vegetation patch that used to be the lawn. Watch a movie. Knit. Ride bikes. All kinds of things.

    Reading spot out front.

    Instead I read. Two romance novels, a couple of period mysteries, a fantasy novel, some modern literature, and a little bit of history.  I read on the sofa with my feet propped on the dog-worn ottoman. Read in the back yard on my new vintage-style woven-strap lounger. Perched with a book at the kitchen table – just for a moment was the intent but I creaked when I finally stood up. I read in bed. At my desk. On the front porch. On the back deck while burgers grilled. I may have spoken to the Spouse and the Dogs once or twice. I know I fed the fish and the cat because they are still alive. Otherwise, it was the books.

    If I happened to be in a place where I absolutely could not read, like say, when I was driving the car out to the Clarence antique/flea markets to find something to make into a bathroom vanity (failure – we accidently bought a beautiful piece of furniture we can’t bear to cut holes into) – if I couldn’t be reading, I thought about the stack waiting for me back at the house.

    Library book stash table. Custom built for the purpose by Funk Brothers Furniture.

    See, I have a small greed problem at the library that results in nice, tall, interesting stacks of books on the table at home. They let me check out 50 books at a time in the city library and I figure, why waste the opportunity? The Spouse and I meet at the café in the heart of the Central Library and have a nice lunch. After, he heads back to work and I, my full stomach, and empty book sack hit the stacks in this order: mystery, fiction, sci-fi. I break to check for things on the computer. Then, new fiction, new non-fiction, biography. They are all in the front of the building. I head to the back. Gardening. Knitting. Animals. History. Women explorers. All explorers. Sometimes, I trudge all the way back up to the front if I forget to pick up my stuff on hold. Finally, home with the heavy sack of book-goodness. I resist the urge to page through the top one at red lights. Mostly.

    When I visit the library on a Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday I can be rational. I am In Control of the Reading. But a Thursday is so close to Friday (T.G.I.F.) that I simply settle in. Surrender to the stack. Wallow in the inky stink of well-thumbed library books. I like to flick the pages as I read. I like to prop the spines on my stomach as I lounge. I like to carry a small stack subset from place to place when I am nearing the end of one and know I’ll need another.

    It is Thursday again. I am down to the last picks of the stuff from last week. A cozy-mystery in a long running series that I find annoying and compelling. A new Victorian-era mystery. Book two of a sci-fi series. A book about beekeeping. Some literature thing I yanked off the new book rack that I’ll probably like. The trick is to Stay Away from the library today.  I would really like to get something done this weekend.