It’s been more than two years since I lost that night of sleep over this. If I were to create a new blog category for posts, it would be seasons, because surely I somehow skipped into a new one that allowed a little bit of time for this … an 8’ x 4’ concept space inside the antique mall that is my happy place. Tomorrow is my first Friday and already I have learned this:
Those of you who have said you love my handwriting and can’t read my handwriting were prophetic. Today, I took a few newly tagged things and a basketful of moss balls to place on fun glass candlesticks (thanks to my mother, who agreed to move them on to a new home to help me). Finished, I went to the counter with an item J. asked me to buy to test the process. My conversation with the very kind person at the counter went something like this:
What is this code in the corner?
JR.
This doesn’t look JR. I can’t read it. No one will be able to read it. The kids who work here on weekends won’t be able to read it, because cursive isn’t taught anymore. All your items will end up in the triple zero file. It could take months to trace them back to you.
OK.
She holds up a red marker and illustrates how clearly I should write JR. I return to my small space to scar my tags with printed red JRs. On a few tags I write JR more than once because somehow it is very difficult for me to print a legible JR. (Once, while studying in Scotland, I attempted to change my handwriting. For seven months, I practiced a different writing hand. Sadly, it did not take.) On the backs of the sleeves holding all the photo cards I have made, to sell at what I hope is a very-below-market price so everyone will want a Juliet Rome card to write a handwritten note, there is now a very large JR.
In this season, for however long this season lasts, I am loving being the mother of my grand millennial daughter and daughter-in-love. They are the kind of young collectors to whom I hope to pass a treasure or two. And I am most assuredly my antique-loving mother’s daughter. I tagged one-of-a-kind items we found long ago at Shaggy Ram Antiques in Edwards near Vail. The stuffed and mounted goose (hers), named Delbert by a dealer who, when I said he’s quite pricey, said of course, he’s uncommon, you’ll find nothing like him here, and that’s a good thing, now sits on the aforementioned counter (for safekeeping, I’m told, and to make sure he doesn’t fly).
In the meantime, I am doing just what I have suggested in the liner copy under the photo on an Irish hares photo card I made to sit with the collection of lop-eared rabbits in the space: Follow wild hares.
J., the day I signed the contract: This is silly.
Me: This is me, living my best life.
Our youngest, after inquiring about the goose in the photo: Holy Goose!!!
