I'm not sure when I started liking old things. I can remember going to my great-grandmother's house when I was only 10 or so. She had one of those reverse painted pictures on her wall that had the moon in it and it looked kind of irridescent. I thought it was the neated thing I had ever seen. I have thought of that painting often and wish I knew where it ended up. I hope it didn't go to a yard sale or even worse, the trash bin!
Now I have this love for things that have been loved by others. The chair with the varnish rubbed off the wooden arms. The bowl that has mixed cake after pie after biscuit after pudding.
Tables with battle scars from the work born by them with five or six colors of paint showing through.
The value of the item is not shown by the pristine nature of it, but the marks made by loving use and faithful service. My daughter always got one of the Christmas Barbies every Christmas for many years. Someone would always tell her to leave it in the box and not bother it's clothes because it would be worth more. I have a feeling that her Barbies felt worth much more than any Barbie in a box. They got new hairstyles and different clothes and went on vacations. They were stars of a new story every day and went swimming in the bathtub. They wore vintage Barbie clothes and clothes my daughter made. When I look at them now, I don't see old Barbies that are missing shoes and buttons and have messed hair. I see the smiling face of a little
girl with strawberry curls and think of the fun she had dreaming up what they would do next.
