My theory is that it starts with those third grade field trips, when the teachers reminded you to extort thirty five cents from your parents in case you wanted something from the gift shop. That thirty five cents in 1964 would be worth $2.69 today — enough to buy a few dinosaur-shaped erasers, a cheap Chinese fan or one of those rubber squeeze coin purses. And, truth be told, it was the best part of the field trip.
And the only thing I really remember from the non-shopping portion of those field trips of yore? The legend of the biggest, most valuable thing of things. The Hope Diamond, resplendent in its glass coffin in the National Museum of Natural History, where it has resided since 1958, insured for $250 million, and reputed to have brought tragedy to each of its owners.
Now I find myself in Maine, where the Shopping Imperative infuses all drives and there’s whimsy around every corner. An aqua bathtub just perfect-sized for someone 5’2”? Check!
A shell-back metal chair painted in my favorite color this season? Alongside a swell little seat for a pint-sized someone made from 50s vinyl? Check. Check.
And a whole barnfull of treasures and trash, including all the weathered buoys a lady could possibly want.
Not to mention canning jars by the gross.
Maine: Not for Minimalists. Might have been runner-up to the slogan that stuck: The Way Life Should Be.
My sisters-in-law have come to visit us in Maine, and they are expert shoppers, particularly in the world of antiques, yard sales, and flea markets — having trafficked in such commerce themselves. They train sharp appraising eyes on all matter of bric-a-brac, finding charm and value where I see none, and pluck the best novels right out from under me. I watch closely, hoping to learn their secrets.
But most of the conversation goes like this. “That’s cute.” “Yeah, it is.” “How much?” “Too expensive.”
Maybe there is no secret.
Maybe there’s just a magnetic charge between you and the stuff you want. And on vacation, that charge is stronger. At least for those of us in the double-x club.
Today, riding back from my new favorite store, Antiques at 10 Mechanic in Camden, where goaded on by the cunning mambo rhythms of Lou Bega, I gleefully dropped $300, I remembered the explorers we learned about in school. Magellan: did he come back empty handed? Marco Polo? Lewis and Clark? Of course not. Exploring has always been about finding special things and bringing them back.
What have I found in Maine — so far? A Viewmaster set with 27 slides to recall the wonder of midcentury media, a rustic bag that will set the tone for my new horsey fall look, a coffee mug so substantial it will make me the Queen of Caffeine, a few lovely items by Flax, and a painting of a seaside nightscape that makes me think of dreams or fairytales.
I am trying also to bring home the clouds as they drift by, the boats bobbing in the glint of the harbor, what it’s like to see seagulls fight over a clam, the delight of watching children make sandcastles, the gingerbread charm of Bayside — and especially the sense of ease that comes with a three-week vacation.
But clouds and vacations slip through your fingers. And so, it seems, we gather trophies and talismans. And bring them home.
This post first appeared in Stuff.Life, a new blog/podcast about our relationship with things. Read more about it and follow it here.