Monday, January 09, 2012

Where Old Things Go To...

be bought, maybe?

The other day, Eustacia said whadayasay we go to the antique mall? We've got a huge one here that Husband estimated must be 40,000 square feet or some such. It used to be something like a K-Mart before whatever it was went out of business, and someone had the bright idea of turning the space into a central place for dealers to sell their wares.

These aren't all antiques by the official definition. Some of it is cool vintage like ladies' hats or a metal dollhouse just like the one I had when I was eight, and some is flea market stuff like a collection of Star Wars juice glasses and Johnnie Mathis albums, and some of it is just old like the chipped dishes that no one wanted to throw away but should have. Regardless, it's all fun to see.

The store is set up in aisles labeled as streets, and you start on First Street and walk down, and then walk up Second and back down Third and so on. If you look at everything, you'll be in there all day.

Eustacia was looking for old National Geographics, which she found. Someone was selling bound editions from the 1920s (actually bound in the 20s so that the leather was cracking and the pages were yellowed). She bought one edition with July through December from 1925.

I wasn't looking for anything in particular because I have put my china tea cup collection out of sight for now and shouldn't add to it, but I still found interesting things. I am amazed at 1) what people make 2) what people keep 3) what people find to sell 4) what people spend money on.

Here are some treasures from our local antique mall.

A framed black cat.

Chickens—I'm considering buying the gold ones.

A Styrofoam model of something from
Easter Island—must be six feet high.

Among glassware, the kind of hair dryer
my mother used when I was a kid.

I really just don't know.

A Peggy Lee doll.

A huge wooden Punch.
Even the black cat is scared.

1 comment:

dive said...

Yay for creepy, kitsch heaven! What a fabulous place to browse and buy weirdness, Robyn. I wish we had something like that around here.