I brought a trailer full of furniture and boxes of stuff up to Minnesota from my parents’ house in North Carolina. There is a beautiful writing desk that my dad bought in Gloucester, Mass. I’ve paired it with a vintage medical stool. The kids have antique bedroom sets that mom and dad bought at an auction in South Carolina. There are pieces from the farm, from Africa, from North Carolina, and pieces collected by my family from all over the world. I have a table made by my Grandfather. I have Grammy and Grampa’s dresser. I especially love the pieces with a story. The box my uncle Bob made when he was a boy. The bowl my grandparents got as a wedding present in 1925. Little items I remember seeing on shelves in my childhood.
But my favorite piece is a modest wooden stool. I think they got it when my dad was in medical school. Long before I was born. I have a photo of me sitting on it when I was five years old. The seat has been cracked the whole time I have known it. At one point, someone stabilized the crack and painted the legs. The seat was padded and upholstered.
When we started talking about items I might want to bring north, I mentioned that stool, and it was put aside for me. I have stripped it and will varnish it to make it look like it did 60 years ago.
People talk about the holy grail, and imagine a golden or ivory goblet, encrusted with gemstones. The real thing was probably a modest wooden or clay cup. Ordinary things become extraordinary because of the stories attached to them. This stool is one of my most prized possessions. It’s not the kind of thing a person would gush over as they walk through my house. They might not even notice it. It’s just the right height for haircuts. It’s friendly. Simple, not precious. Sturdy and honest, it’s always there. You can sit on it. I remember a hamster named Hammy eating a saltine on it back in Ferndale, before I started kindergarten.
It gives me a connection to another time. I think of the childhood me as a different person from who I am now.