Furniture

My mother at left, her brother, mother and sister. About 1971.

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I was 17 before I knew about furniture stores. I blame it on my Mama. 

I knew about all the other stores. The Winn-Dixie. The A&P. Smith’s Cloth Shop. John B. Lee’s for Music. And even Rice’s Office Store. I did not have an inkling that stores exclusively offering new furniture existed. 

In my world, furniture was passed down. It came from an aunt. A grandmother. OK, maybe you bought some of it — at the Haven of Rest Store where you could hear a testimony and buy an old couch. There and at hole-in-the-wall cinder block buildings where old furniture was stored by tetchy men or women who ran antique stores or at least what passed for them in my small South Carolina town. When Mama and Daddy started planning their house, Mama began attending auctions. She took me with her. 

We went to a lot of auctions. Mostly estate auctions. Not barn auctions. Or fancy Christies type auctions. Held on Saturdays, they attracted all kinds of folks. They parked on the grass or on both sides of the street, causing arterial clogs of a whole ‘nother kind than the one which felled the dearly departed.

Auctioneers standing on front porches hoisted crumpled cardboard boxes aloft over clusters of  heads. Helpers tipped the box forward, enticing us to peek at the treasures. Box lots, the grab bag of the auction world, might hold a shepherdess figurine, a holey granite enamel saucepan and a few odd pieces of silverware. Not that the anyone ever put those things together in real life. You had to take the good with the bad. 

The auctioneer pattered rapidly as hands waggled and permanent-waved heads nodded. Mama warned me not to lift my hand or shake my head. Small appliances and chairs mixed in between box lots. There were a lot of ancient appliances. Wringer washers and monitor top Frigidaires weren’t too uncommon. Once, when Mama wasn’t paying attention, my brother bid on — and won — an ancient radiant electric heater. The kind that would kill you if it fell in your bath. It was a frightening looking thing, frayed cord and all. I never knew why he wanted that. Mama got a box of Bavarian china, sprigged with blue flowers and decorated with gold. Her bonus was a bunch of assorted serving pieces. The spherical covered vegetable dish with its broad rim reminded me of Saturn. Bit by bit, the box lots petered out and the big furniture came out. I don’t know why we never got big pieces there…but I suspect it was because in the heat of the auction, prices were dearer than Mama cared to pay. Mama liked a bargain.

Afterschool, I tagged along with Mama to newly discovered antique stores. And I didn’t even think it strange. It was just something we did. I learned the difference between cabriole legs and William and Mary vase turned legs and Jacobean turned legs. I know all about ball and claw feet with eagle talons vs hairy lion’s paw feet. Then I learned the style periods of Hepplewhite. Sheraton. And the acme (at least in our household) of them all: Chippendale. I could tell a Chinoiserie fretwork from a Gothic fretwork. I knew a Japonisme lacquer finish from a cloisinee surface. I don’t know many third graders who could spot a vernacular farm-made drop leaf table and know it was walnut as opposed to cherry. 

Bit by bit I could distinguish between oak and mahogany. Probably just from seeing it so much. Or maybe she explained it to me. But I think it was more osmosis. I observed the wood’s appearance and learned the difference between all the exotic species. I could tell you which dovetails were machine made and which ones were hand cut. 

Mama was finding treasure and furnishing her house. And she was leading me to appreciate the beauty of line, proportion, scale. To differentiate furniture forms and know a high boy from a low boy. A 20th century neoclassical reproduction from an 18th century upholstered wing chair.

I said Mama liked a bargain. Some might have even said she was cheap, but cheap never looked so good. She had a way of seeing the beauty in the discarded. A talent she employed with people, not just furniture. As an idealistic child of the Depression, throwing something away was just not done. It was made over and done up. And it was beautiful.

One afternoon, I found her in the car shed. Her white shirt sleeves rolled up. On her hands, yellow Playtex dishwashing gloves turned orange from Old English Walnut Stain. Like Doris Day, she puffed out the side of her mouth to blow the hair up off her forehead. Refinishing furniture in the Southern summer is hot work. Now, that’s the same table where I sit when I eat dinner at my son’s house. 

You see like our DNA, furniture is not purchased, it’s passed on.