I am a vintage girl. As a kid I would rise way too early on a Sunday morning to hit the flea market with my mom — rain, shine or bitter cold. Especially unorthodox for a teenager, I kept going because I loved it. My taste has morphed over the years, but the nostalgia of the items I’ve bought still tugs at my heart strings. My tastes have ranged from primitive to mid-century, but my collections and passion have remained consistent.
A paint-by-number winter scene in a hobbled together handmade frame makes me smile after the Christmas festivities have passed. Vintage farm photos welcome spring, aqua pottery cools the summer heat and brilliant orange bowls warm the house as days become shorter and winds cool. These small things bring comfort and stories (though from my own imagination) I never tire of. When I begin to think it’s time to replace the carpet or tear down a wall, these new-to-me old things cheer me. This, I am sure, is why Doug never begrudges me a day at a flea market, time in antique store or unplanned stop at an estate sale. A hand-stitched apron with rick-rack trim costs only a couple bucks and doesn’t necessitate drop cloths or power tools.
Estate sales are my favorite. A peak into someone’s life and the things with which they lived is an honor. I carry memories of people I never knew: The owner of a small turquoise egg cup in a southern-style cottage with a low-slung porch, an organized housewife with a bamboo desk organizer. Amongst stacks of photographs in a simple 1960s ranch I found a photo of a 1940s housewife posing proudly in her kitchen; she has become the face of Nourish.
At these sales, the kitchen is the room I gravitate to first in search of a mixing bowl or un-paired creamer in need of a good home. Sometimes I marvel at why a rusted Granny fork or chipped tea cup made the cut for so many years. Then I remember my can opener.