One man's junk is another man's treasure.
Fair enough. But can one man's treasure become another man's junk?
In a bid (quite literally) to secure some vintage props for my photography studio, I tapped out today's column in the draughty interior of a large auction hall. There were dozens of antiques on display - most of them sitting in white plastic chairs, clutching lot numbers with a look of barely disguised fervor as each item was lifted from faded antiquity to be battled over briefly before being put back down into its dusty corner with a new (but still old) owner.
After spending some time looking at the antiques as they came up for sale, I was amazed to discover that in small, low-lit corners of our community there is a thriving and frankly feisty market for Toby jugs, chipped-glass jelly moulds and ancient chaise longues that could tell tall tales about several generations of bums if only they could talk.
The secret part of me that still wonders if fairies live at the bottom of the garden couldn't help imagining that the antiques might well be able to share their stories. In fact, if you looked closely enough, some of them already were.
Lot 105 - a hand-made wooden sewing box with needles, thread and a small frayed bolt of paisley fabric remaining inside - was once the pride and joy of a Mavis, Madge or Doris. As the blush of youth faded from her cheeks and her face started its gradual slide south, the sewing box sat at her feet beside the fire on cold wintry nights and, with its contents, helped her stitch together comforters for her first-born, doilies for Sunday best on the mahogany dining table and then booties and caps for the grandchildren.
A magnificent walking stick carved from driftwood and worn smooth as silk first by being tossed about on the ocean and then from hours under the wizened hands of the craggy old man who was never seen without it hit the hammer at only $20.
As once-treasured possessions were sold off to antique and second-hand traders looking to make a quick buck with the resale, I couldn't help wondering if there was a second layer of attendants - slightly opaque and floating just above the floor, shedding smoky tears that slid down their ghost-white cheeks as a lifetime of history and memories was split up and sold to the highest bidder.
What did Mavis, Madge or Doris think when no one wanted the sewing box that she once loved more than any other possession?
Would anyone know or care about the lonely last days when the walking stick was left propped by the bed, its owner no longer able to walk? As a collector of blue-and-white Cornishware, my heart broke to see a proud collection broken up and sold off - a family of china added to over a lifetime and adored by someone who either no longer cared or no longer could.
Looking around me, I saw that most of the faces in the room bore the same signs of wear and tear as the goods being sold. Did older people care more about the currency of the past simply because they belonged to it?
And with everything we use today made in China and unlikely to last into next year, what would our generation be able to bid for in 50 years when wanting to hold onto a piece of our past? Lost in my reverie of the past and an overwhelming sadness for the future, I almost missed my intended target for the day: a stack of weathered vintage suitcases stacked one upon the other and just calling out to be taken into the woods with backlighting and slid under the bottom of a cherry-cheeked toddler. Unlike the sewing box, the cases were a hot-ticket item and, in five-dollar increments, I kept bidding until I owned them all for $125.
With their tags and stickers still legible, I learned they had travelled a good distance before ending up in the boot of my car. The next leg of their adventure through the years was about to begin and new stories added to the contents of each case. Would they last longer than me? Would they find themselves back under the hammer in some distant future in which I would not exist? And would anyone care?