Cleanup on Aisle 2, a Trip, and Some Shoes
October 26, 2006
It’s 2:30 in the morning. Small Clif–poignant, brave, wildly barf covered–turned up at my bedside with trash can in hand to announce that he was having a bad night.
I am so very awake. Never been so awake. Let’s just leave that vale of Clorox behind for the moment, shall we? We’re going on a little trip.
Is that potpourri I smell? Like, six kinds of potpourri at the same time? Is that the sound of a taxidermied wildcat falling off a table? Why, it must be time for
The Tailgate Antiques Show!
There’s nothing like a brisk October morning when you get the semi-annual chance to haul it up Briley Parkway with your most eagle-eyed Tailgate pal in search of . . . um . . . stuff.
Mystic Crystal Revelation
We didn’t spy any arbiters of taste this time–Mary Emmerling is usually around, wearing her cowboy boots, a warehouse of turquoise, and three or four blankets. But that was OK–we were bedazzled by all the becolor.
If I were into tatting, well. All you tatters, getcher boots on–this is a lifetime supply.
The vendor was rassling two stuck buckets when we walked by. The stuckest buckets you ever saw.
The backside of Fair Isle is what comes to mind whenever I see a batch of these jacquard bedcover things.
Compulsory miter moment.
A faded rag rug is always divine. There was a 21-foot-long vintage rag rug for sale, unused, for less than it would cost at Pottery Barn. Somebody please go get that thing–room 130.
Makes me think of that Loretta Lynn song, “I Miss Being Mrs. Tonight.” You know, “I took off my wedding band/And put it on my right hand/Oh! I miss being Mrs. tonight.” [Pause to contemplate the greatness of Loretta Lynn, especially when Jack White is producing her.]
On to the Other Category of Things
You didn’t think I was going to leave you with a bunch of pastel-colored inspiration, did you? Here’s the real Tailgate.
There’s a fine line between clever and stupid, as they say in Spinal Tap. Can you put a finger on the exact place where arcane becomes junk? Here! This box of busted watches is where!
What in the world is this $95 framed piece of stuff? To my eye this looked like sailing canvas. Like, from the H.M.S. Surprise? The Mayflower? Your neighbor Bob who takes his sailboat out on Old Hickory Lake?
I’ve always wondered what Ma and Pa Ingalls spent on that cabin of theirs. I’ve always wanted a log cabin–let’s do the math. $1,500 per window. Ma and Pa Ingalls had three windows in their log cabin: $4,500. If a window is $1,500, then a log surely has to be, like, more than a window because it’s bigger, right? So, $2,000 the log, call it 60 logs for a dogtrot because I am NOT sleeping with those two boys every single night even if those pioneers did it and ended up with six children. That’s $120,000, plus a door which has to be $6,000. That’s $130,500 for a two-room log cabin. No wonder Pa kept moving–he couldn’t keep up the payments.
Take a look at this rag ball.
Eagle Eye provides her hand for scale. Forget the Eight Pound Ball of Yarn. This thing weighs about forty pounds, and the seller said she had to roll it down Main Street to get it to her van.
A word about rag ball economics: There is absolutely no rhyme nor reason to the pricing of rag balls. These balls were $22 to $48 apiece. I think Betsy Ross breathed on them or something. Six doors down, I bought a boatload of balls for five bucks each, $2.50 for the small ones. If you’re looking for rag balls for knitting projects, just keep looking.
I’ve never seen mixed media taxidermy before, so this is breaking new ground. I’m seeing deer fur, dog face, and stripe of skunk on top of a form that surely must be a wig stand.
And finally, here are the shoes of the day:
No, they’re not the shoes I was wearing yesterday, but aren’t these just divine? If I were a size five, I’d be clonking around in these.
Well, it’s been a while since our little Profile in Courage has erupted, so I think we’re in the clear now and I’m getting sleepy. I have to say, I’m having that same feeling that I had back in the days of constant nursing. I’d be up at four in the morning, reading three-day-old Tennessean classified dog ads, trying to decide whether, if I were ever going to get a dog, would I want the AKC Welsh Corgi or the Basset Hound mix. I’d decide–firmly–that a Corgi was the way to go, sort of the same way I’m sitting here right now certain that when dawn breaks, I’m heading back up Briley Parkway for that big ass rag ball.