It was twenty five years ago. We stood facing each other with a wide work counter between us. She was probably in her 80’s. Her hair was the color of spun copper. She was regal and in control. She had belongings to sell (the consignor), and my job was to price her belongings (the consignee). She stood at the counter and looked directly into my eyes. I loved her in a flash.
That day, the store was full of curious shoppers all milling around waiting for my copper-haired, regal customer to open her boxes. I began my inner chants: Please give me the knowledge to price her items correctly. If the contents of the box are worthless, please give me the words to tell her that each item has a value that can’t be measured in dollars or in this type of store. Please don’t let her be an impossible dragon queen.
A younger man accompanied her. He stood with his arms folded across his chest and never spoke. The mysterious man. Maybe he was her driver, maybe her son. Instinctively, I pushed him out of my line of vision. He was not part of the transaction. He was a “watcher.” I see him standing off to her right. He was not regal.
She explained to me that her husband had died; she needed to sell some of her personal belongings. The process of pricing began. She was prepared to sell her memories. She cried each time she brought an item out of the box. Every item immaculate and in perfect condition. At one point, she unwrapped two large, colorful, hand painted pottery pitchers. Her honeymoon had been in Italy. The pitchers were purchased on that trip.
(He stood there saying nothing.)
Already loving this woman, I also loved her pottery. The moral & practical dilemma for me was — You shouldn't price an item you love, especially if you feel connected to the consignor. I took the pitchers to the owner of the store and asked for a price. The response from the “back room” was $12.00 a piece. When my client left the store, I instantly purchased both pitchers. I own very few possessions from twenty five years ago, but the pitchers are still with me. I favor the one with the polka dots, but they are more appealing as a couple.
She came into the store one or two more times, and he was always with her. She always cried as we established prices for her possessions.
He may have loved her. He might have been her son.....But, at that time, I didn’t hold out any hope he would later offer soothing words to her or give her a gentle pat on her shoulder.
They will always be “her” pitchers. I bought them for her memories and kept the memories as my own. I look at these pitchers everyday and see a tiny, regal, copper-haired woman looking straight into my eyes.*
*My memory of this consignment has probably evolved over time. There is, almost always, another story behind each transaction in the antique business — He might have been the perfect son. She might have been a dragon queen. She could have been playing me. She probably was playing me. The pitchers might not have belonged to her. She may never been married. But — the pottery pitchers are still with me. Something happened over that consignment counter between the regal lady and my self. The pitchers hold the secrets. Maybe they were made in Portugal.
With a smile, incognitoinmaine www.incognitoinmaine.etsy.com
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