Maybe it’s because I practically grew up in one, but I heart antique stores. There are so many fun ideas around every corner. Like how about throwing some flowers in those sifters?
Or putting the cake on this scale?
Growing up in a home full of antiques, I’m not sure I ever really appreciated them. I remember my parents dragging me through shop after shop… hunting for that perfect piece while I cried and complained. I remember the dust. I remember really wanting to take those collectible toys out of their box.
I remember scratching “I love mom and dad” into an antique dresser that cost god-knows-what… and how my mom could barely scold me when she saw my (strategically I’m sure) sweet little message.
But I don’t remember being particularly excited about the antiques… or interested at all.
It wasn’t until I settled in my own home that I realized how much their style had affected me. As I searched for that perfect pistachio mixer, paid too much for a vintage-style toaster, and cooed over Mark’s Taid’s (Welsh for Grandfather) roll-top desk (now our bar), I realized that my parents’ style would always be a part of my own.
Luckily Mark came with a little antique love of his own. Our home is a happy mix of modern and vintage and I love the way it works.
Today, Mark’s son Austin came along on our adventure. I could see myself… bored nearly to tears, dragging my feet through aisle after aisle of dusty antiques… and it made me smile.
We never know how much our parents rub off on us… until one day we find ourselves giddy and skipping through those same aisles.
