(Photo: 1800s book with a parchment bind.)
Finds on a frozen morning at the brocante.
One has to ask themselves, "Why?"
Cold was just another word describing Siberia in Provence.
Not only was it Siberia, I kept finding small and smaller things....
Which equates to taking gloves off, which means frozen fingers.
But the book with a parchment bind, just begged to be touched.
Don't you agree that life is meant to be lived deeply with ones senses?
Touching a a two hundred year old book on a frozen Provencal morning, with the sun barely peeking its head, a tiny snow flakes dancing in air...
The type came through the page, braille without meaning.
The dealer had stacks of old books.
Most of the other people valued the books for their title, or hoping to find a first edition. As for me, I had to feel the pages, drool over the worn patina, and scooped up books because they were worn with reading pleasure.
A tiny box lined with blue velvet held baby rings.
"God, who would give these us? No Mother would. I asked the dealer, "Is there a story with these?"
"Baby rings, that is all I know."
"Baby rings that once adored fresh sweet chubby fingers that now have grown old and forgotten."
Of course my fingers warmed with excitement.
"What are you going to do with baby rings?" The dealer asked.
"Eat them one by one." I laughed.
A title of a book I bought.
"Symbolic snowflakes!" It was an added sign....
Pure unbleached linen nightshirts.
I thought about putting them on instead of putting them in my bag.
Scalloped detail around the neckline and a monogram in pink at the base.
Handmade lace. Hours, by candlelight.
Was it being made for a baptism gown?
An altar cloth?
Certainly, the hours spent creating such a finery wasn't thought that it would be hanging out in the bottom of a dirty trunk in the middle of a brocante fair over a hundred years later.
The tiny lavender ribbon stayed true to its task, it seemed to whisper, "I never let go."
How could anyone not sigh, "Come home with me?"
Mixed media ... nothing is new under the sun, nor under the snow.
Laced back covered crystals.
I have the bug bad.
Two hours away from my warm house.
Looking at tiny little wonders, that don't amount to a pile of beans in the scope of things.
But the simple pleasure, like a lump of sugar in your morning tea.
Sweetness to soften the day.
A tiny touch.
Steady and true.
Speaking of miracles.
"If I can hang on with one stitch to a piece of lace, you certainly can move a mountain."
I do hear these things at the brocante: Courage, trust, love, devotion, aching beauty, faithful-ness....
Black transfer-ware dish.
Black such an uncommon color to be appreciated when back in the day it was considered a mourning color.
How many hands have held this and never once dropped it?
Or did it sit in a cupboard waiting for the right occasion to be used?
That is why a chip can be a beauty spot... "What would you rather be: A crown on a pedestal (in a cupboard), or would you rather be the girl with the scuffed shoes?"
A round tiny dark blue box holds ivory playing chips.
Never leave home without your gambling chips.
In life we have to be ready to play.
I wonder if the woman owning these carried them in her corset?
A small locket of curly doll's hair.
Yes, folks that is why I get up on a frozen morning to go to the brocante.
To tickle my heart with such silly little wonders.
covered lace chips,
cold feet that find a warm rhythm on icy ground.
I never tire of the stories that unfold at the brocante.
Passion does not have to make sense.
It only has to propel us to feel beyond our skin.
Tongue in Cheek Antiques... allows me to continue doing what I love best.
I am thinking to rename it to Brocante Bug, because I have it badly and thankfully, I think so do many of you.
Thank you for the many thoughtful birthday wishes! Thank you Thank you!!
French Brocante Books...