I turned 60 years old today. Sixty. I’m still trying to let that sink in. When did this happen? When did I get OLD? Sometimes it feels like it happened overnight, although I know that isn’t true. Other times I look in the mirror and feel like I look about the same as always. Until I see a photo from 40 years ago. Then reality slaps me upside the head. I’m not young anymore. Or spry. Or limber. Like they say, ‘the old gray mare ain’t what she used to be’. The outside of me is very, very different now. There are wrinkles and spots and I don’t think I like it.

I used to be able to stay up till 3:00 a.m.; in fact, I loved staying up late and sleeping in till as late as possible. Now I’m a {gag} morning person! Mostly because I fall asleep at 9:00 at night against my will. I am convinced that the sand man is drugging me. He needs to stop. I don’t think I like that either.

I still feel the same mentally though. When someone asks me how old I am, and I hear the words coming out of my mouth, I think “LIES! ALL LIES! This can’t be right!”. I still feel like I’m about 20 something. Early 30’s tops. But 60? Nope! I still love most of the same things I did when I was a kid. I love crafts of any kind, gardening (and by gardening, I mean telling my husband what to plant and where to plant it, unless it’s in a pot) and cooking (most days).

I still love bicycling, roller skating (though the thought of breaking a hip is now a concern) and reading. Reading is normally rudely interrupted by that darn sand man though, so it takes me forever to finish anything. It’s as though he thinks the act of wrapping up in a blanket-cocoon is the universal symbol to say “Hey! I want to go to sleep now!” Never mind the fact that I have a book in my hand. Evidently he does not have a grasp of social cues.

I’m still a huge fan of Little House on the Prairie, bedtime snacks, and farm animals.

The two things I could not live without haven’t changed, either. Music and antiques. I cannot fathom a world without these two things in it. First of all, music is my lifeline. From as early as I can remember, I loved everything about it. Listening to it, dancing to it, singing, and learning to play it. I was enamored with Burt Bacharach, Steve and Edie, The Captain and Tennille, and Donny and Marie, just to name a few. I loved all of it. Elvis Presley, Herb Alpert and the Tiajuana Brass, the Ray Coniff singers, Three Dog Night and Karen Carpenter. The list could go on forever…. Some of the best memories of my childhood was my parents taking me to Venture (a 70s Walmart type store) about once a week and letting me pick 3 or 4 of the latest 45s. I would bring my little 10 year old self home and play them over and over and over, picking out the harmony parts and singing at the top of my lungs. In the middle of the family room. My poor parents. They must have really loved me to put up with that. It could also be why they eventually got me a highfalutin stereo for my room, complete with the latest technology - an 8 track tape player.

Side note: Though I can sing most of those songs word for word to this day, I was yesterday years old when I discovered I didn’t recognize a single one of the top songs of 2003!

The other thing I can’t imagine the world without is antiques. I mean, technically that isn’t possible. Someday, IKEA furniture will be antique. Thank God I won’t be here to see that! No offense to IKEA, but to me their furniture feels very boring and sleek and functional. I want personality, character, and beauty.

Like music, I have loved old things ever since I can remember. When my mom and I would go shopping, I would pass over the cutesy plastic pony in favor of a beautifully painted ceramic horse. I was the weird kid who would rather go to an antique store and look for glass shoes and boots or thimbles for my collections than go buy the latest Barbie doll. Don’t get me wrong - I liked Barbie just fine - I would just rather look at pretty things. Old things. Breakable things. I learned early on to walk with my hands behind my back, and as I got a little older, I was taught to handle things very carefully, like the treasures they were.

My mom instilled in me a sense of respect for old things and taught me that just because they were old didn’t mean they were to be cast aside. I often heard her fondly say things like “that little old toothbrush mug with the chip on the rim belonged to your great grandmother.” Or “that carnival glass bowl was a wedding gift to your grandparents.” Or “don’t get rid of those old spice tins. They don’t make them with metal lids anymore. They use plastic now. Someday the ones with the metal lids will be more valuable” She was not wrong. My grandpa and dad were both extraordinarily talented wood workers, my grandpa being a cabinet maker by trade, and my dad a meticulous perfectionist at whatever he did. They fixed up the old things and made them functional and beautiful again. (I wish they were here to do that for me!)

Anyway, I grew up with an appreciation for old things. I have a lovely washstand that was destined to be thrown out because it was falling apart. If memory serves, it was nailed to the wall of a relative's barn or shed or something. Unless, they said, my grandpa would like to take it and try to fix it up. He did. It’s beautiful and lives in my home today. I have a drop leaf table with a similar story. When it was new and went to its first home, it probably sang for joy, but it eventually got worn, scratched, damaged and cast aside. Until my grandpa rescued and restored it, and now it is singing its second verse in this song of life. We used that beautiful thing for years as our main dining table. I just love it, which got me to thinking - why? Why is that old table more precious to me than the nice big one with the three leaves we bought to fit our growing family?

And then it hit me. It’s the love and care that went into it. The story behind it. The history of the children that sat around it, both mine and the ones before. The battle wounds that decorate it. This particular table has bunches of tiny holes on the top near the edge. They are like itty bitty stab wounds. From forks! Forks that my little ones would bang on the table with because they were so excited for dinner. One of them would start pounding away, and the rest would join in. Part of me would get a little mad that they were stabbing our table, and the other part would be happy that they were excited and thankful for whatever I had made them for dinner.

There are other scratches and battle wounds beneath the beautiful stain and varnish my grandpa put over them, but they are there nonetheless. There is a story behind those battle wounds that I will never know, but I like to imagine how they might have gotten there. The edges are no longer sharp, but smooth and rounded, and the wood has aged to a beautiful patina. It has grown more precious and interesting with age, flaws and all.

Antiques have taught me that I don’t have to see myself as old and wrinkled. I have lots of stories and battle wounds, and more to come. I have a divot above my right eyebrow from when I was pulling weeds under our deck and stood up without thinking. I have one eyelid that I think looks a bit different because of a stye I had in it the week before I graduated. I have more crow’s feet and forehead furrows than I care to count, caused by lots of laughter, surprise, and squinting in the beautiful sunshine. And I have patina. Lots and lots of patina.

Some of you have your own battle scars. Maybe they are stretch marks from bringing a new life into the world. Maybe it’s a story of survival in the form of a scar from open heart surgery or a port for cancer treatment. You might have age spots, varicose veins, or gray hair - think of them as part of your own unique patina. In the antique world, that’s a highly sought after thing, this patina. Embrace it. If you are not old enough to have developed your own special patina, you will be soon enough. It will happen and you won’t even realizing it until you look in the mirror one day. And when you see it, celebrate it. And when you find yourself in that phase of life, just know that this is YOUR second verse. So sing it at the top of your lungs.

What antiques taught me about myself

What Have I Gotten Myself Into?