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After returning from our trip out west, we are finally, after a year, getting our home back in order. The rooms are now free from filled-to-the-brim packing boxes with old newspaper wrapped treasures.
As I gaze at the entrance way to my living room, one of my antique side tables is happy once again as it sits proudly with photos of our family, boasting of days gone by with memorable expressions on our faces, even though some are no longer with us.
As I wander down through the room a bit further, there sits my old 1930's antique sewing box, standing proudly, sharing a part of the hearth, with its carved legs gently placed on the alabaster flagstone. Its rich mirrored, sleek walnut and warm hued exterior tones boasts a myriad of surrounding tiny drawers, housing buttons, ribbon, multitudes of silk thread, patina rich thimbles, old scissors and bobbin-winds, pieces of frayed antique lace, worn beautiful through its color of age, and needles long time quiet, lodged neatly in worn, leather sleeves, a faint, far-away aroma wafting through the air, a virtual recollection of the past.
As I continue my journey across this room of special things, I come to our old, circa nineteenth century, English, kerosene burning, heater, Valor #10, in pristine condition. Its gleaming chrome dampers, set off with absolute clarity its cutout grill-work vents, showing off marble-tipped handles used, in days gone by, for releasing the heat produced by its combustible action. Naturally, we do not use it today as it was used years ago, but I do have my beautiful Christmas Castus, in full bloom, planted in my mother's antique vase, resting on the top.
My eyes are drawn still further, up on the wall, adjacent to the bay window, where there hangs an antique shadow-box, hand-made, gilt-edged gold, the color of shiny butterscotch, which holds the dress my mother made for me when I was 5 years old. The material is sun-lit yellow eyelet, not too badly faded, considering it is 53 years old. It's cut-glass buttons still gleaming, as the dress is ensconced comfortably on crushed, red velvet. Here it rests comfortably, next to the picture that so proudly shows me wearing the same dress at my piano concert in 1948.
In the corner, next to the entrance to the patio, is my Franklin Treadle Rotary Sewing Machine, circa 1925. It sits, enclosed in a decorated, mahogany chest, with antiqued brass handles that allow access to its use. It is in marvelous condition today, and even though it still works beautifully, its only purpose now is display for two of my antique dolls poised in arabesque.
Finally, as I once more trace this special place were we mostly find ourselves, is my antique, hump-back, trunk, circa 1920's, finding it at the side-wall next to the window-seat. It is also in pristine condition, original siding of shiny black tin, slatted walnut straps, gracefully embracing brass accoutrements. Over its lid sports an antique beige, cashmere throw, fringed with hand-made silk tassels.
These are some of the small reminders of where we have been and represents what matters most to us now. As we look back over our lives we remark that how so much less, gives us so much more in return. We are quieter now, moving much slower, by choice. We sleep to wake and take our waking slow. We have put away our fancy, and catalogued our flotsam and jetsam, mostly left now for our own reminiscing. We savor this time of simplicity, void of pretense, as we enjoy dancing to our own music for a change.
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