Lament for a Favorite Antique Store

One of my favorite antique stores has been sold. It happened quickly because I wasn't able to say good-bye to Andrea, the owner, or find out the details.

Andrea, a rather flamboyant young lady who favored colorful vintage clothing, wildly coiffed bleached-blond hair, and ankle-threatening spiked heels, often threatened she would sell the store and return to Oregon. I guess she just up and did it - which would be vintage Andrea.

Her shop was cluttered - but there was a method to her arrangements. One never knew what treasures could be found by poking around behind the old parking meter, Coca Cola machine, or vintage juke box. She made elaborate labels for each item out of old photographs, scalloped tags, and colorful ribbon. If she didn't write the label herself with typical curlicues and dotted points, she commisioned her friend Debbie, who often came in with food and her calligraphy pen, to spend a couple afternoon hours.

Debbie works down the street at the another antique shop that is more of a "junk" store than anything else. It is all Debbie can do to keep the owner organized and his addiction to Internet poker games often has Debbie leaving the store in annoyance. She never stays away too long.

The running gag between them concerns items they both consider to be the "world's ugliest antiques." Each will see how quickly the other can sell what has been picked out for them.

"Kimberli! Don't you just love this MOOSEHEAD?" Andrea would squeal when I came in the door, under the trellis and around some vintage baby buggy or milk crate or something. The moosehead was totally atrocious but Debbie had bet Andrea lunch she could sell the ugly 'kewpie' looking doll before Andrea could unload the moosehead.

"It's so... rustic. Don't you have a room that is kind of rustic, almost 'hunting lodge?' It would be perfect!"

I would always decline. That moosehead was truly awful. I think there was 19th century dust and mold deeply imbedded in it somewhere.

Another fixture of Andrea's store was Dottie, her much-loved and terribly spoiled chihuahua. Dottie had her own bed, her own bowl, and wore "outfits" that Andrea often made herself. Sometimes the dog would leave her bed and seek me out while I nosed around some distant end of the store. She really was a sweet dog, despite the feather boa and painted nails.

Andrea's store always had new items that she found in her travels - she often just up and drove places to acquire stock. One could always count on something unique when Andrea returned from a travel.

There was always food, coffee, and goodies in the store. People loved Andrea and flocked to her with these items of homage. She had a regular entourage of followers - and they were always a lot of fun.

Jim was a Japanese guy who worked for one of the aerospace companies. When he was there, Andrea played Broadway tunes on the Bose radio - and Jim was always puttering around, fixing things, putting things up, taking things down, moving something to the left.

"Jim's teaching me to play poker," Andrea announced one Saturday when I ventured inside (under a vintage garden swing, a huge watering can, and around an old fire extinguisher).

"Andrea's trying to teach me Spanish," Jim replied, immersed in the card game but humming softly with the radio.

"He's not a good student," Andrea lamented, pursing her ruby red lips and adjusting a sequinned and beribboned head band that held the wild brassy blond hair from her face. The headband was a sample of several she had acquired from a local crafter. "Aren't they just divine," she gushed, when I fingered one. For Andrea, yes... for me it would look like "dress up."

"Neither is she," said Jim. But neither of them budged from their place at the rolled-top desk. Over the desk hung some vintage wind chimes, an old road sign, a rusty shopping basket, and some old canteens.

Sometimes she would teeter on those shoes from behind the counter and seek me out for a chat. Andrea was kind, decent, interesting, and fun. She loved life, Dottie, old things, and Oregon. She always wanted to go back to Oregon.

"How did you end up here?" I asked one day, while Jim attempted to secure yet another garden arbor to the much-maligned bit of wall space allocated for it.

"I followed a guy," she said with a hearty laugh. "He was a policeman. We met when he was on vacation. Didn't last. Here I am!"

Another frequent shop denizen was Bob, who found old scraps and vintage furniture pieces almost beyond repair and created something different from them. He crafted mantles, tables, garden benches, and the like. Andrea always displayed them outside the store, on the sidewalk with elaborately decorative tags. I overheard Bob say to Andrea once that he liked to price things just under what people are willing to pay, so he won't have to cart anything back to his garage if it doesn't sell. This way, his wife wouldn't be annoyed at all the clutter in the garage - a space he was always intending to "clear out." Bob would lean against the counter, drinking coffee, calling Dottie a "princess" and generally procrastinating whatever it was he was supposed to be doing.

Many of antiques in my home came from Andrea's shop. She always promised to stop by one day and see where it all ended up. But the school year kept me busy and a month or two went by before I made time to stop by the shop.

The fact that it had been sold was quickly apparent. My visit today quite literally sank my heart. Nothing hangs from the ceiling, there is no dog on a fancy bed in the corner, no trellises are to be seen, and the staid woman behind the counter, which lacks the roll-top desk and vintage wind chimes, is all business. The store has a rug now - and it is very clean. Almost sterile. No Andrea.

And the moosehead is gone.