musings on thrifting, a barn sale

I’ve been thinking lately how our home is truly a collection of found pieces: many second hand from Seth’s or my parents, items we had before, and other things we’ve collected over the years through garage sales, marketplace, antique shops. Some pieces of furniture came with our home, but we’ve slowly been replacing the items that don’t feel us. Home takes time. Creating a space that feels authentic is a deep and winding process. I am terribly impatient, but committed to the process of doing this home right. Sometimes I’ll have an impulsive, cheap purchase and immediately regret it. I’ve learned (am learning) that it’s better to wait for the right thing. I think that’s part of the frustration with antiquing in general– you can go shopping with hopes of finding something specific, but you often come up empty handed. My best advice when creating a layered, lived in home, is to thrift frequently, and keep a list of what you’re looking for. I always seem extra forgetful when I step into Goodwill for some reason. 

Seth likes to sometimes recount the farm auctions his mom would take him and his brother to as children. These were exactly the kind of places you might imagine, and they’d have hotdogs (and HeMan Masters of the Universe toys), too. I have distinct memories of thrifting with my mother as well. Mom loves antiques, estate sales, and garage sales. Thus, so do I. I learned everything I know about spotting high quality furniture and how to bargain prices from her. Sometimes Seth’s mom would re do old pieces she’d find at these auctions. Consequently, Seth wasn’t intimidated by stripping a pie safe I found for $35 a few years ago. It’s now a gorgeous, raw oak cabinet that works as a closet in the boys’ bedroom. Our mothers taught us all of this, their wisdom benefitting Seth and I on our own homemaking journey. When I think about legacy and motherhood, these are the kind of stories I think are important to tell. Indeed, our hobbies and interests as mothers can shape and influence our children into their adult lives.

Saturday, my friend Emma (and her kids) and I decided to adventure over to Osceola, Wisconsin to a barn sale. I’d found an advertisement on Facebook, it looked promising with a photograph featuring old books. I immediately asked another homeschool mom friend who enjoys collecting rare, antique books if she wanted to join us. She couldn’t, but I was hopeful the sale would be good. Last month Cilla, mom, and I visited a barn sale we’d been to in the past over in Miesville, not far from farmland Seth and I considered purchasing when I was pregnant with our first. This time, I opted to just take Cilla, soaking in a little one on one time. We drove through a wet, overcast morning winding through countryside of verdant green grasses and old farmhouses. In this part of Western Wisconsin, like in so many rural areas, the speed limit decreases as you make your way through little, sleepy villages. I spotted a local bar and grill, its parking lot full for Saturday brunch.

After a slight wrong turn, we arrived. Emma and I pulled up around the same time in our minivans, realizing the parking lot was up the hill and around the corner. Sometimes with these kind of adventures the joy is in the hope of it, the journey to and back, maybe you get a little treat on your way home. I have developed a realistic expectation on antiquing, just hoping for the joy of the day, nothing more. Occasionally I stumble upon a sale that feels really special. This was one. 

The owner just said she was motivated to sell, “garage sale pricing,” and to just bring items we wanted to the front and she’d make us a deal, no prices listed. The barn was full of so many items– dishes, hard cover books, boxes of Christmas decor including china bells from 1982 and 1985. We ended up doing multiple laps, and I left paying just ten dollars, my arms full of treasures.

It reminded me of an estate sale I went to with mom back in 2015. The owners, who had passed, lived in an unassuming midcentury split level home with two basements in a first ring suburb. They’d been collectors, antique dealers themselves, and when we pulled up and saw rows of Victorian wicker rocking chairs on the lawn we knew. I’ve been thinking about this particular experience for over a decade now, and I’ve even had dreams about it. Inside the living room there were card tables lining the perimeter. I saw WWII ration cards for the first time, saved preciously, individual squares carefully ripped out by someone who was fastidious. In the first basement were boxes of ribbon. I still have a huge roll of antique lace that I love wrapping presents with. It was truly remarkable.

For every sale or shop that feels overwhelming, or stinky, and for every thrifting experience that is lackluster and feels sort of like a waste of time, there’s sometimes a golden one in there. I’m happy to have experienced another.