As I sit here this Saturday morning, I’m struck by how much of my furniture is weathered, chippy, and worn-around-the-edges.
This is by design. I’m drawn to old, used, gently worn pieces. Almost nothing in my home was bought new. The beds were, of course, as was the sofa in the den (which I detest) and the loveseat in the living room (bought when I was living in Boston) and the chair I’m sitting in, which may be the reason it is the only place I’ve been able to comfortably sit since my back was injured!
Everything else is vintage. Tables, chairs, cupboards, hutches, desks, dressers, piano, kitchen island, kitchen table – all of them were chosen precisely because they were old with nicks and scratches and chips and frayed edges.
When I was growing up, everyone bought new. No one would have entertained the idea of having something chippy and old in their home. This was post WWII – new homes were being built in subdivisions for GIs and their families – the baby boom had begun. My mother would never have anything like my weathered chairs or tables in her home.
Somewhere along the way, my taste took off in a different direction. I love old. I love imagining the story behind a piece. Sometimes I already know it, as in the case of inherited pieces. But sometimes, I don’t. I just know that a particular piece was used and loved.
And now we get to use and love it.
And it’s recycling at its best, don’t you think?
Have a happy Halloween everyone. We don’t get trick or treaters out here on our country road. And, though I obviously loved Halloween as a child and love seeing children all dressed up in their costumes, I’m afraid dressing up as an adult holds no allure. I was a working actress for too many years. I’ve worn more costumes than I can begin to count. So has my husband.
This year’s costume? My flannel pajamas.