“We are not makers of history. We are made by history” – Martin Luther King Jr
Anyone that knows me knows of my love for thrift shops and antique stores. I could spend all day searching through shelves of old books, records and knick-knacks, even in this sweltering Florida heat. It’s something about those dusty, musty, over crowded shelves that intrigue me, always have me thinking beyond the surface. I see an old, raggedy teddy bear and think, who cuddled this until they fell asleep? Maybe a love-struck teen won this for his sweetheart at a county fair, where they shared their first kiss. Maybe a father gave it to his child before he headed off to war, so they would have something to hold when they missed him.
When I see a ring; I think of whose fingers it sat upon; a widow perhaps? Thinking of the love she had lost, or a young woman thinking of the love she had just gained?
Who received this record for their birthday, and listened to it until they knew every lyric by heart?
Whose eyes peered through the lens of this camera? What were they pointing at?
The most intriguing thing for me to find is old photographs. I love to fantasize about the lives of these people. The people who were lost to time. A young woman, with three children, sitting in a field of wildflowers. A group of bearded men in top hats. Two young women in attractive dresses, champagne glasses in hand. Were they happy or sad during this photo? What was going on in their lives? What happened to them?
What can I say; I’m a sucker for history with a bit of mystery.
Until next time,
The Greenest of Blues