Everything I Learned, I Learned In An Antiques Store

Everything I learned, I learned in an antiques store. Not totally. I learned plenty of other things in other places I worked. But I’ve learned much working in an antiques store. Not only do the browsers and customers teach and share volumes—the actual antiques in the store tell their own stories too.

One story the antiques tell and teach is that the more time goes by—things stay pretty much the same. There is truly nothing much new under the sun.

We know that the generation that fought in WW II is considered the greatest generation—and what we are going through today in can’t compare totally to what that generation went through. But today I stumbled across an ad in a 1943 magazine that spoke to me, and taught me, that wars, battles, 

conflicts and politics change—but  basic human nature and deep feelings of most Americans, change only minimally.

The ad sponsored by Nash-Kelvinator—yes, the folks that made cars and refrigerators—might be a bit sentimental for today’s tastes. A bit dramatic. But I read between the lines and found the emotions in this ad to be timely.

The ad shows a gaunt American soldier, a prisoner of war in Japan. He is behind barbed wire and is clutching a letter from home as an armed guard looks on.

The American’s response to his letter from home is: “Reading behind the lines of your blessed letter, I feel again the warmth of your love, and your unshaken belief in our future together. Just to know there is still in the world such faith as yours is enough to keep me sane…”

The American soldier writes of his hopes that, as he and his other fellow captives look to the sky, that the Americans will deliver them from evil and bring them home again.

He goes on to write, “Home—where I want unchanged, just as I remember them now, all the things that I hold dear. The right of a man to think and speak his thoughts, the right of a man to live and worship as he wants, the right of a man to work and earn a just reward! Don’t ever let these be lost. Keep everything just as it is until I come back...back to American where no armed guard bars the door to liberty…where there will never be a barbed wire fence between a man and his opportunity to work and build and grow and make his life worth living—this war worth winning!”

Yes, going back over 70 years, or 300 years ago—even though our conflicts and wars have changed—the reasons why we fight (even on the home front) and in our hearts and minds, does not change. And what America was hundreds of years ago—and even decades ago, should not change because other outside forces want us to change.

And that’s what I learned in the antiques store today.

Who Says Collectibles Can't Be Funny? Satan Pig, A Sign Of The Apocalypse

The King of Impeccable Taste is a cool character. Not much rattles him. He can look a scary clown in the eye and not flinch. He can see a ratty voodoo doll and only chuckle. He can whip up steampunk junk and fry up bacon in a pan and never, never let me forget he's a man and almost always has impeccable taste.

But one thing on our junket through Florence today rattled him. You know it has to be good to rattle him.

Of course, I screamed, "Come over here. This falls in the category: What The Hell Is This Doing In An Antiques Store." That's what I screamed. But this a family-friendly blog, so I usually refer to things as, what the heck is this doing in an antiques store.

But this thing definitely reminded us both of hell.

I am not lying. The King actually said," What the hell is a Satan Pig doing in here? Pigs don't have horns. I believe this thing is one of the seven signs of the Apocalypse."

"You mean, the sign of Calypso?" I asked. "The tag says it's a Mexican folk art pig. Maybe Calypso made it's way into Mexico more than I suspected?"

"I said Apocalypse," the King said tersely.

Still stunned, I looked for reason and logic in the world of folk art and collectibles.

After all, I have Frida Kahlo collectibles and books. I am a huge fan. I know that Frida, even at her grittiest, would not inflict a Satan Pig into the world of folk art--nor would any folk artist of her fine nation.

 Yes, the King kept hissing,"It's a Satan Pig. You cannot explain it away,"  as he did the sign of the cross.

OK, there are certain things in the world of collectibles and art you just can't explain away. So in order to cleanse and absolve myself, I went on another junket in Florence, the antiques capital of Colorado-- to find more scary clowns. It turns out there are indeed scarier things than clowns.

Tales From The World's Smallest Daily Newspaper: Oh, Snap! He Came Out Swinging More Than His Towel

Everyone who is tired of reading and hearing about the stereotypical danger breeds of dogs, raise your paws. Aha!

I suffered through a true story that proves just about any type of breed of dog may be hazardous to one's health--and in this case, one's modesty.

At one time my husband and I lived in a small apartment above our landlord's house. The landlord's family owned an English bulldog. I'll call the bulldog Max. Max, of course, is not his real name, since I wish to save the pooch and his family any embarrassment. But come to think of it, it was my family that suffered some embarrassment.

It was a hot summer day. Corning, California was a hot place decades ago and still is. We had our front door open since there was no cooling system in the apartment.  Max came galloping up the stairs into the living room. He did that every so often just to be friendly.

This time it was different. The landlord allowed no pets. Why, I have no idea. They had a pet. And the apartment was, well, just a touch dumpy. We had two dogs that we boarded with my mother in the country. Every couple of months, we'd bring our favorite dog, Guido (his real name) to the apartment to visit for a few hours.

Guido (long gone to dog heaven) was a small mutt, who though full-grown, looked like a puppy. Max ran through the doorway and pounced on Guido. I don't believe Max was on a killing mission; I believe he was simply shocked that there was a dog in our apartment when there had never been one there on his previous, impromptu visits. But the attack was a bit scary.

I tried reasoning with Max--then yelling. Just as I was panicking, a teenager, the girlfriend of the landlord's son, came bounding up the stairs after the missing dog.

She, too, screamed and attempted to separate the snarling dogs to no avail.

I yelled to my husband who was in the bathroom taking a shower. He couldn't hear what I was saying, just the semi-hysterical tone of my voice.

He was so intent on rescuing Guido that he didn't notice the girl in our living room. Yep, he came out of the bathroom swinging more than his towel. He snapped his towel and bellowed at the dogs, which startled Max enough to let loose of Guido.

Apparently swinging more that his towel shocked the girl enough to run out of our living room, bulldog in tow, without a word to either of us.

OK, at the time I was a writer for a small-town newspaper. I might have mentioned this incident in my weekly column the next week. Of course, I changed all the names.

This was in the days before the Internet, but it didn't take long for reaction to come in. People started stopping by the newspaper office giving me the thumbs up, leering and chuckling. So far, the response was 100 percent positive, until THE GIRL showed up at the office hinting my head needed to be pounded into the pavement.

We were standing outside the newspaper office, since she requested I step outside. I had no idea she wanted to step outside into the alley so there would be no witnesses.

Her: Why the f--- did you print that? she screamed.

Me: Because it was funny. And I hate to tell you this, not much happens in this town, or my life for that matter, and we are always looking for newsy tidbits to fill up the paper.

Her: Well, the story NEVER F--ing happened.

Me: Well, it did. I was there. You were there. But I didn't even mention your name--or the dog's name for that matter.

Her: FOR GOD'S SAKE! The whole town knows you. They know where you live, so they would figure it out, you dumb...

Me: Oh! Well, I do apologize. You see, I never did complete my degree from journalism school and...

Somehow I got her to calm down and she left the alley without breaking my fingers. I went back into the office. My phone was ringing.

It was my towel-snapping husband calling from the restaurant where he worked. He was gasping. "I just got a phone call that J---- has been calling people all over town. A whole bunch of them, came in the restaurant today, and said she was coming after you!"

"It's too late. She already did."

"Are you OK?"

"Yep, for a sweet-faced girl with those adorable cheeks ya just want to squeeze, she curses like a sailor and threatened to kill me."

I didn't tell J----, that at heart I am a chicken. But the next week, column deadline rolled around and for some reason I could NOT think of a thing to write about. Then I got to thinking that Jamie really had a lot of nerve thinking she could threaten my fingers and the freedom of the press. After all, if one lives in a Podunk town, just about everything more exciting than the farm report will end up in the paper.

I wrote another column--no, not about corrupt politicians, but errant pooches and unfortunate towel placement. After the column was published outlining her thuggish tendencies, we never heard from her again.

Barely out of my teens myself, I learned that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword. And that a man's voice and a snapping towel are indeed mightier than two girls screaming.

Right after the girl ran out of our apartment, my husband, red-faced and mortified, commented that now this girl--a virtual stranger was only the third person to see him naked, besides his mother and me.

I had news for him--make that only two people. I close my eyes.

***This is a true story from my days as a reporter at the Corning Daily Observer--the world's smallest daily newspaper. Most of the people in my stories are long gone--or their names and other details that could easily identify them are not used. I guard people's privacy--but also a believer that if a person did something really funny or realy outrageous it might need to be written about.