Reflections
of a Christmas Past
I am given to
reflection at this time of year and thinking of an estate sale from
Christmas past. My business as an estate sale manager feeds my love
for history, adventure and romance and takes me to places that can
often fulfill all those passions. It is rare to find an estate
undisturbed for a century waiting to be discovered to reveal the
remnants of a bygone era. The promise that one is yet to come
compels me on. I received a promising call and wondered if this was
it!
When the call comes
to manage a sale of a ninety-something old woman who has passed, the
heart of the sale manager stirs. Images crowd my mind as I set out
to visit the house. We collectors and dealers alike are all time
travelers at heart and most of us are romantics. I headed to my
appointed meeting while visions of treasures danced in my head. I
imagined a Victorian lace tablecloth and see the table set with
ornate butler-polished silver and rows of English puddings. I hear
the whispers emanating from the lips of the long-departed, smell the
leather -bound books lining the shelves and the sparkling crystal
glass which held the after- dinner vestiges of sherry the guests of
the period left behind. The romantic in me see the candelabras with
small wafts of smoke like floating ghosts after the snuffer has done
its work. To think that we can own the very DNA carelessly
transferred to a priceless point de Venice dinner napkin leaves the
romantic euphoric. We can almost feel the whale bone stays sticking
in our sides and compelling us forward. As I draw closer to the old
house, I think I can see the one- hundred-year-old gown that waits
breathlessly by the upstairs window for a special beau or perhaps
rests on a dress form giving a tacit nod to romance. That visual
piece of poetic gossamer only floats on the dress form now and haunts
our dreams.
My musings end
abruptly as I am jolted back to the 21st
century realities and at last come to a stop at the old house. I
enter the hallway and am met with a blast of cold air and an even
colder reality. Piles of discarded items are strewn around the
rooms. An overburdened wing chair waits nearby the carefully laid
fireplace for the spirits of Christmas Eve. The visions that I
enjoyed on the way are quickly dissolved as the rooms reveal
discarded contents of the house spilling over every surface.
Everywhere is evidence of decay and careless, disorder and neglect.
My better judgement escaped me long enough to accept the assignment.
There was no heat or
electricity in the old house. The promise of snow filled the air and
inside we shivered as we carved a path through the crowded rooms.
The flicker of romance was replaced by a feeling of doom that was
only lifted by my partner who climbed on to the highest pile and was
beaming with delight at the challenge before us. I was not so much
beaming! We labored intensely for days tossing trash out the window
to the waiting dumpster below. Before long some semblance of order
had been achieved. We got to a bedroom closet and my partner spied
small vintage hat boxes at the very bottom. He was overcome with
delight as he dove in to liberate them from the closet floor. I know
hopes of Victorian cocktail hats floated in his head. What to his
wondering eyes did appear when he opened the first box, but the
preserved body of a beloved pet cat neatly curled up and frozen in an
eternal nap. The box was sealed with cellophane with a prayer neatly
tucked on top of the body. Three more boxes yielded other pets
similarly preserved with loving prayers....no hats! We moved to
another room where rows of jars lined a shelf each with a blob of
sorts floating in a putrid green liquid. My imagination ran wild and
all romantic notions flung out into the waiting dumpster.
The
sale came together in time. The absence of spirit guides left on my
own to wonder what the message was for me as I persist in the madness
of the occupation I chose. In place of romantic relics from the
past, I have been delivered mold, bugs, dismembered dolls, mice
droppings, bat poop and the occasional live bat. The existence of a
boarded up neatly preserved house holding original contents from a
century or two ago, is scarcer than hen's teeth. Although,
scientists have found a way to grow teeth in chickens and hens, so it
may no longer be true that hen's teeth are scarce just as the
virgin estate of an ancient lady may exist somewhere waiting yet to
be discovered.
I will give over
these musings to my higher self before I visit the present and future
as Dickens considered. Perhaps I can conjure some veiled figures for
guidance. It may be possible that the fabric of time is all woven
together as scientists like Albert Einstein believe and the past,
present and future all exist simultaneously...a dizzying notion for
sure.
Before leaving the
house, I pressed my check against the soiled window pane as evening
set in and the snow began to fall. I watched as church-goers created
intricately laced patterns in the freshly fallen snow. I imagined
the men with top hats and the women in long wool coats and smart
hats; their hands snuggly settled into fur muffs and their arms
linked to each other in friendship. Time all came together on that
magical evening and I left the reality of the moment behind.
I will always be a
time traveler in my mind and incurable romantic and I cling to the
hope of finding those magical estates that amaze, transport and
delight the soul. I shall hope to bring them all to you as my
Christmas present neatly wrapped in the time traveler's dream. I
may even deliver a smiling hen to you as well! But for now, I wish
you find love in the hearts of all you see...It is my holiday wish
for thee!
"There is passion
for hunting something deeply implanted in the human breast"
Charles Dickens -
Oliver Twist
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