Oodles and oodles

Firsts

First lilies of the valley.

First time the apple trees we planted have blossomed.

First quilt purchase of the season.

May really is a good month.

Three things I didn't expect to buy

There's nothing better than an on-site auction at a nice old house. Like an estate sale, it offers a lifetime's worth of stuff. Unlike an estate sale, you get to name your own price. This can be a good thing or a bad thing. It's a great thing when you can move out of your usual comfort zone and snap up some bargains. Like this Weller planter.

Pretty piece, and it's a good incentive to do a little research on Weller.

I ended up with this box of frames because I wanted one thing in the lot. You know how that is. These are the frames that are left after I pulled out the too-ugly- and too-broken-to-fool with.

This is the one thing I wanted, and it wasn't even the frame that I wanted, but what was inside it. I need a little blogland help here, though - this frame has three distinct layers and is several inches deep. Not my taste at all, but it is pretty, and I don't know if there's a particular name for this kind of style.

What I wanted was the photo inside the frame.

Complete with documentation.

The arrangement under the tree is amazing - the dolls, and the teacup and saucer, and the books and die cuts ... every time I look at it, I see something different. Marjorie's family knew how to do Christmas.

There were some other photographs, too. Talk about formidable ancestors.

My daughter took one look at this woman and pronounced her "terrifying."

The third thing I didn't expect to buy was a box of type. Most of the letters were huge (close to 6 inches) and had a beautiful wood patina. I put the terrifying portrait and some of the type in my new Etsy shop, Vintage NE. (It had what we call a soft opening a couple of weeks ago and is for the more rustic farm and camp stuff that I like but that kind of clashes with pretty vintage housewares.) Anyway, some of the letters were snapped up instantly, so I was glad I lugged (and I do mean lugged) the box home.

There was a cigar box full of smaller type inside the big box, and if you look closely, you'll see why I bought it. It was calling my name.

A pretty good day

When you read an advertisement for a sale that promises Swanky Swigs, you know there are several possibilities. One, the person could be one of those people who calls every vintage glass a Swanky Swig, and we all know what we think of them. Two, the person could be one of those people who knows exactly what a Swanky Swig is and is not going to be selling them cheap.

Or - and this is an unlikely possibility - the person knows exactly what a Swanky Swig is, but the person is moving and is more than happy to make a deal with someone who's willing to take them all. Here's a really unlikely scenario: The person will have not only a nice array of Swanky Swigs, but two of the tall 1937 Tulip #1s, which we all know are really hard to find. Because in all of your years of Swig hunting, you've found only one of them.

The person will have a bunch of the easier to find but no less lovely smaller 1937 Tulip #1 Swigs.

Not to mention a Kiddie Cup.

And the 1940s tulip from the Posy series.

And, as if you needed anything else to make you happy, a sturdy little Jadeite coffee mug.

I'm not suggesting this kind of thing happens often. When it does, it's a pretty good day. 

 

A brief tour of rearranged areas

As you well know, it's not possible to rearrange one area without needing to rearrange other areas. Once I rearranged the stuff on the little Hoosier, I had to rearrange the stuff on the big Hoosier, and on the kitchen shelves. I don't often take room views because I find the lighting tricky and I do things like think I've moved the ugly wastebasket out of view when in fact it is right in the middle of this photo. We're just going to pretend we don't see that and proceed into the kitchen.

My house is really small, so there were only about three steps involved. Now we're looking at the rearranged Jade-ite collection, with a little springtime yellow.

Another step so you can see how prominently Swanky Swigs figure into this arrangement.

Obligatory closeup.

Shelves without any Swigs but with Swig-friendly canisters.

These footed dishes have been kind of stuck in a cupboard since I got them. It was practically criminal.

 Obligatory salt and pepper shaker closeup.

Okay, now we're not leaving the kitchen but merely turning 45 degrees to look into the dining room at the big Hoosier. The canisters way up on top are not recent acquisitions but recent to the display because they were living in my garage for a few years. Some people really should not be allowed to own vintage.

A salute to the Netherlands, part 1.

Digressing just momentarily for the back story, here are two wooden boxes I've owned for quite some time but could never really quite figure out how to use since they had tops instead of bottoms. If I used them to hold things, the graphics would be upside down. Probably one of you would have thought of this right away, but it took until just this past weekend for me to realize that if I pried off the top and hammered it onto the bottom, all would be right-side-up with the world. Or at least the world of vintage advertising boxes that I own.

Imagine my happiness when the cream cheese box turned out to be exactly the right size for my only set of eight matching Swanky Swigs! I may have told you this story before, but I like telling it, so plug your ears if necessary: All of these Swigs (plus one or two more just like them) came from the same auction, but it was a poorly organized auction, and these glasses were scattered throughout the box lots, one glass per box. Fortunately they were dollar box lots, but I had to buy an awful lot of junk to get them all. Well worth it, however.

Salute to the Netherlands, part 2. This concludes our little tour of rearranged areas. For those of you wondering about what happened to the other box, it became part of a project that required multiple trips to the hardware store, a new drill bit and a Band-Aid. I'm not quite ready to talk about it yet.

Evolution of a little Hoosier

The little Hoosier started out looking a little rough, as demonstrated here. And even though its reconstruction was a success, I have to admit that it was used primarily as a) pet supply storage underneath and b) clutter collection on top. Stuff that I would bring home from a sale would sit here until I took it upstairs. Sometimes I pretended that it looked OK - the stuff I was bringing home was mostly vintage housewares, after all - but instead of looking eclectic and fun, it mostly looked just jumbled.

When I found a 1950s plate rack at the thrift store last week, it landed, naturally, on the little Hoosier. I had planned to sell it (they're usually worth picking up when you find them, because they're usually inexpensive and usually sell well, and yes, I know I qualified this sentence with an unusual repetition of the word 'usually.') But that 50-cent purchase ended up encouraging me to make better use of the space.

The bottom is still devoted to pet storage. (Yeah, they do have a lot of stuff!) But the top shelves look a lot more organized.

I built the shelf unit for the top all by myself last summer with scrap lumber from the shed, except for the trim piece on top, which I bought because it was a near match to the trim on the original Hoosier. One of the proudest moments in my life occurred last fall when my brother visited and remarked on the Hoosiers. "Did you buy these together, or did you just happen to find ones that matched?" he asked. My brother, who has remarkable do-it-yourself and repair skills, was stunned that I built something.

It's nice to have the little Hoosier clutter-free, with all my ducks in a row. Or birds, as the case may be. 

Friday the 13th finds

I wondered if Friday the 13th was going to live up to its reputation of being unlucky when I went to a barn sale this morning and found only a dish full of keys. The keys were OK, but I was hoping for more. I wasn't expecting more, but I was hoping.

On my way home, I was overcome by an urge to bake. Specifically, to bake raspberry streusel muffins. This required a detour to the grocery store. Oh, happy day, there was a moving sale set up directly across the parking lot from the grocery store.

I first spotted a Swanky Swig. This always makes me happy. What makes me even happier is when the person selling it wants a quarter for it.

I also found some planters and a pitcher. The matte white planters will go into my collection. The pitcher,  with that windmill scene, really needs to be filled with a bouquet of tulips.

Even though I'll probably sell it, the deer planter is my favorite of all of the pieces.

I deliberated over buying a shipping box filled with vintage Christmas ornaments, which was marked $25. I was *this close* to buying it. It's hard to leave ornaments behind. But once I looked through the box, I realized there weren't really enough great ornaments to justify the price. Close, but not quite.

I saw an individual box of ornaments that wasn't marked. "That one?" said the woman having the sale. "A quarter."

Sold.

After the sale, I walked across the street to my original destination, the grocery store, where half-pints of raspberries were selling for more than I had spent for everything at the sale, so I passed on them.

I came home feeling virtuous and thrifty, and less convinced that Friday the 13th brings bad luck.

My pillow problem and how I solved it

I really love pretty pillows.

So does Carson.

Carson's favorite way to greet people he loves is by bringing them a pillow. It's been very hard to break him of this habit, because it's cute and people say things like "Oh, Carson, did you bring me a pillow? You're such a good puppy!" Instead of saying things like "No! Put that down now!"

For this reason, I have, for the past six years, lived in a mostly pillow-free zone.

The alternative to the pillow-free zone was a heavily pillowed zone, which is what I tried to create over the weekend. Carson is the happy recipient of 10 pillows, five in a basket downstairs and five upstairs. I'm hopeful that if there is a convenient supply of dog-friendly pillows, he will leave ours alone.

He was very excited when I gave him the first pillow. When he's very excited, his nose wrinkles up and he grins and his whole body wags. He was pretty excited about the second pillow, too. By the time pillow No. 10 rolled out from the sewing machine, he merely lifted his head from his favorite pillow and weakly wagged his tail.

As you can see, it was an overwhelming experience for him.


(The upstairs supply of pillows, to coordinate with the decor.)

A problem I had not foreseen was Patch's interest in the pillows.

Happily, she was quickly repelled by the thin veneer of dog slobber already on the pillows.

Better on his pillows than on mine. If I see that little crazy quilt pillow anywhere near his mouth, I'm going to ask for a refund from the Brittany rescue people. Or, more likely, return the house to a pillow-free zone.

An argument against DIY

Committed as I am to the idea that the best way is the do-it-yourself way, I could not be happier with our refinished dining room table and the fact that we left it up to the pros.

(The lovely doll quilt was a gift from the exceptionally talented and generous Martha.)

The finish on the table is nicer now than when we originally bought it at an antiques show. And it's as smooth as glass. I'm almost afraid to eat on it.

I took this photo in part so you could admire my extensive Easter decor. The daffodils with the deep orange centers in the vase are growing wild in the meadow. When I went to pick a few, a rabbit scurried away. Clearly, it was the Easter Bunny.

The only other remotely Easter-ish decoration is this egg cup. There's writing in pencil on the bottom: Easter 1935. (Thank you, original owner.)

As you might be able to tell from this photo, our Easter was low-key and lovely, and I spent part of it stitching new pillows for Carson. At some point I'll take more pictures and explain why, but in the meantime, feel free to admire his extreme adorableness. 

 

 

24

My mention that I bought 24 of a certain item at Saturday's estate sale prompted the terrific Gina of Vintage Junk in my Trunk to leave the following comment:

"Looking forward to what you got 2 dozen of; hope it's not what I think it is!"

Over the last week or so Gina and I have been commiserating. Outright complaining. Gina had e-mailed to say she was finally getting around to listing _____, and she had a few questions. I answered the questions as best I could, and wished her luck, because I knew she would need it. What she was listing requires care, patience and a high threshold for boredom.

There are 24 button cards in the photos, but that's not what I bought at the estate sale.

More e-mails were exchanged, and the thought of Gina toiling over her __________ made me feel a little guilty. I had my own stash of _________________ to sort and list, and it was the kind of job I was trying to put off indefinitely. But all the chatter about ______________ convinced me to get busy. At least I would have company, and misery loves company.

There are 24 wooden spools of thread in the sewing box, but that's not what I bought at the estate sale.

In one of my last e-mails to Gina, written after spending several hours with _________, I pledged I would never buy __________ again. She felt this was a sensible course. In fact, presented with the opportunity to buy a big bag of ________________ over this weekend, she wisely refrained.

There are more than 24 toy clothespins in the tin, and that's not what I bought at the estate sale. I already have enough of them.

No, I bought 24 patterns at the estate sale. Even though it was only days after I had pledged to never buy them again. Vintage patterns are fun and appealing. They're also a pain in the neck. Many sane people gather up a big bunch of patterns, stick them on eBay, confess they don't know if they're complete or not, and sell them for a lot of money.

Nothing wrong with that. But I feel compelled to check them over. Piece by piece. It takes a long time. It's extremely boring. (Just ask Gina!) But my great-grandmother and my grandmother would be horrified if I were selling patterns that I hadn't checked.

I tried to at least be discerning, and not buy more than I thought I could reasonably get through. (I love a good Dolman sleeve, don't you?)

So I bought 24. And I've already sorted and listed them. (They're on eBay, link in the sidebar, you know the drill.) And having spent a number of hours with vintage patterns, I am once again ready to declare that I'm never buying them again.

Unless they're really, really pretty.


 

Return of the aprons

Today felt like the first day of the 2012 sales season, for no other reason than a) there was a sale b) I made an effort to get to it and c) I purchased items. And although I'm not completely committed to using the patented apron rating system throughout the year, I thought it would be fun to get it out at least for Opening Day. So let's give a shout-out and an apron

for the Pyrex Friendship refrigerator set, complete and in good condition. An auspicious beginning.

Oh, not so fast.

I arrived at the sale at 6 a.m., signed the list and waited 2 hours for my number, which was 21. It was an OK number. Not great, but not terrible, and I wasn't all that concerned because with a nice big split-level house with a garage and an attic, I wasn't worried about being among the first wave of people to go in.

Except the woman running the sale decided to let 20 people in. Which would have been tolerable had the house actually been crowded. But it was not. From my vantage point ONE INCH from the entrance, I watched my rivals shop leisurely. They made one pass through the kitchen. Another. A third. I thought I would lose my mind. The negative apron above is for wanting to dash my forehead against the door until it was a bloody pulp.

This apron is for me telling the man guarding the door that I was never coming to one of his company's sales again.

It was purgatory. Mainly because I could see the Pyrex so close I could touch it. It would have been actual hell if somebody actually picked it up while I was watching.

Reliving this experience has made me get up and pour myself a soothing glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

Finally, the woman running the sale allowed five more people in. (She could have let in 50. It was just crazy.)

I grabbed the Pyrex. On another pass through the kitchen (yes, I now was the one making leisurely passes through the premises) I got more Pyrex.

Delightful individual casserole dishes. Sorry, no more aprons. Only one Pyrex apron per sale. I don't make the rules, I just enforce them. Actually, I do make the rules. What awesome power this is!

I discovered the super-secret cubbyhole of Christmas ornaments. I was especially happy to find a box with six strands of glass bead garland, which I seem to have a hard time finding.

An apron for glass bead garland. Not that there's anything the matter with nice old tinsel, a few Shiny Brites and some oddly endearing Santa ornaments.

Some kind-of cute Easter decorations. I'm just going to get this out of the way here: not a fan of Easter. Somewhere along the way, it became my elderly relatives' favorite weekend on which to die. Don't ask. The numbers would shock you. I hope I don't have to give myself a negative apron for my conflicted feelings about Easter.

Moving on: this feels like a good time for a cute alert.

I'm not big on real cute, and even I think this is real cute.

It's Napco.

The head fits on the body like a cookie-jar lid, but it's not a cookie jar.

It's a bank. With a little padlock to foil burglaries.

You can't deny a cute kitten an apron.

I'm about to award another apron

for purchasing 24 of a certain item which I will discuss at a later date. It has been the subject, the last week or so, of some personal e-mails exchanged between me and a Well-Known Blogger.

So it's a two-apron sale. With the possibility of a third, if the bracelet I picked up on a whim turns out to be Bakelite.