one Man’s Trash
Over the summer, my boyfriend and I took a trip to North Carolina for a concert. We rode through the rich greens and blues of the mountains to Asheville, and on our way back we came across a cute little town to stop and eat in. We explored every shop and sight that was available to us, eventually coming to an antique store packed with dust-coated treasures. In searching the bookshelves, I found an old, slightly tattered copy of John Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath”. Flipping through the pages led me to yellowed notecards and dog-eared pages. I instantly felt connected to it.
This book had not only been read, it had been loved.
I bought that book for three dollars and brought it back to Tennessee with me. Now I sit flipping through the pages in my bedroom, wondering about its previous owner. Did they read it for school or for pleasure? Had they re-read it repeatedly? Did it belong to someone else before them? They had clearly paid attention, drawing comparisons and predicting foreshadowing in the notes they left behind.
As I get older, I notice my affinity for used items and old things more. I love seeing water-spots and rips and frayed edges. Whoever had those things before me was making memories with them. It is the same as people growing older and collecting smile lines or wrinkles. They are evidence of a life well-lived. Seeing annotations in the margins of a book reminds me of how different our perspectives can be and shows unique thought processes that I find so endearing. Having it in my possession now feels as if I’m continuing a sort of legacy.
I’ve noticed too that I find a lot of photos in antique stores. They are often sepia or black and white, sometimes landscapes, but mostly portraits of people from decades ago. I love to flip through them, see people that I’ve never met and will never meet. All I can tell about them is what I see. Though, there will always be one common denominator: They all have a story. Whether I will ever be able to know what that story looked like for them, they lived it. They shared it with others, they smiled, cried and embraced loved ones. They woke up every day for their entire life, no matter how short or long, and experienced something new. Now, however many years later, I sit thumbing through pictures of them on the floor. I read the backs of them, dating back to long before I was born. Everyone in these pictures could have had so much to say, and I would spend hours trying to understand it all.
Seeing things that belonged to someone else fills me with love. There is an interconnectivity about it. Holding this book in my hands, it feels like a passed-down heirloom from a family that isn’t mine. I can almost feel our fingerprints lining up together to turn the page.
Antiques and thrift finds feel so personal. The Tiffany lamp that casts warm light around my room did the same for my predecessor, and one day it will light up for someone new. I can only hope that it sheds light on their most beautiful moments, the private ones that you keep to yourself, the moments where everything feels warm, and you can feel the heartbeat of everyone in the world thrumming through you.
Strike Out,
Reagan Yoder, Writer
