Daughter of a Dealer

Hello, my name is Linda and I am a hoarder. There I’ve said it. Hoarding is a way of life when you are born into a family of antique dealers. It takes roots very early as you can’t bear to see anything destroyed or thrown away. Your parents have taught you there is value to everything. My addiction is antiques.

The addiction began much earlier in my life but became problematic when my antique dealer Mom died early in the pandemic. Sorting her belongings was literally separating the junk from the junQUE, then figuring out how to dispose of it all during a pandemic. My tiny apartment has been stacked with overstuffed boxes of Chinese tea sets, prints, porcelains, oriental dolls, statues, and boxes of vintage jewelry. At 96, she had stuffed lovelies in every nook and corner of a two-bedroom home she shared for over 25 years.

Mom and Dad were "show" dealers for almost 30 years. Dad had been in sales all his life and was successful in unorthodox ways. As a hardware nuts and bolts salesman, he discovered that he could outperform other salesmen if he went to the peanut farmers and sold direct to them, developing a milk run with guaranteed income. He brought this same concept to his antique business by traveling to different shows each week rather than opening a storefront. Many years Mom and Dad did as many as 45 shows a year. His reasoning was that with a storefront you have to please the same people all the time, but by doing shows you changed the people, not the merchandise. This retailing philosophy served them well, making them a decent living and affording them a nomadic lifestyle they both loved. With all the expenses, their lifestyle never made them rich, but it was a lifestyle they enjoyed.

For most of the 30 years, they traveled in a 35-foot motorhome, well before full-time “RVers”. Dad loved that he could play golf at a different course each week. Mom loved shopping and time for her crafts. They planned their trips to be in the mountains in the Summer and Florida in the Winter. They stayed at all varieties of campgrounds, from luxury resorts to more remote public campgrounds. They built support relationships with the other dealers, often eating out and socializing together, and always helping each other if needed.

There were so many experiences. Once a dentist admired an antique copper kettle at a show. As fate would have it, Mom had developed a toothache the night before. You can guess what happened next! Before the dentist left, a deal had been struck. Mom appeared at the receptionist's desk the next day with a brown bag containing the kettle to pay her bill. Dad was a real throwback to the days of barter. Another time, a customer picked up an item marked "Pat. 9-10-1910". Of course, an antique dealer would immediately recognize this as a patent date. But the customer puzzled over it for a few minutes, looked at Dad, and said, "Gee, don't you wish you knew where Pat is now?" Then there was the time Dad helped physically chase down a shoplifter, then drove back over 1,000 miles to be a witness at his trial. He was so proud that he helped serve justice. Dad loved to share his tales, and what stories he could tell!

Although well into her 70’s, Mom traveled for several more years after Dad died before retiring. She extended her working years by downsizing to a smaller motorhome with a trailer behind for merchandise. She still worked the same grueling schedule. Many of her show friends helped her adapt to being alone. I even took leave from work and traveled for six weeks with her. I was so proud of her.

But after several years, she grew weary of being on the road alone and retired. No more shows meant a loss of income except for social security. Long ago, she had warned me that the cash was gone but my inheritance would be "things". I never realized the full impact of that statement. Now that the time has come, suddenly being the owner of these "things" is overwhelming. The magnitude of the task never occurred to me. Plus, I have the same weaknesses. I love the Oriental collectibles and antiques she left - particularly the lacquer chests encrusted with lovely ivory ladies in kimonos, beautifully enameled cloisonne vases and boxes, miniature jade Ming trees twisted in fascinating contortions like bonsai trees, large rice paper fans with hand-painted flowers and scenes, and of course, lovely porcelain Buddhas and Quan Yins. Checking my hoarding tendencies is a very real issue and knowing how much she loved them makes it even more difficult to part with them.

Fortunately for me, Mom had kept a little black inventory book. This task of keeping the inventory had fallen to her after Dad died. I recall going to the stationery store with her as she wanted to set up her book to use in her way. I urged her to buy quality that would last. She settled on one made by a company called Moleskin, an odd but apt name as it seemed very durable and well made. I quickly realized that the grade of the paper would be perfect for Mom's love of writing with a fountain pen with real ink. She always wrote in beautiful, old-style cursive. Early in their years on the road, Dad had developed a love of dealing in fountain pens. Mom had her pick of Esterbrook, Cross, Mont Blanc, and many other excellent writing instruments. Writing with them became a lifelong habit. I am reminded of how many times I took her to doctor's appointments and watched as she would proudly present her medications list, written in cursive with her fountain pen. She would spend an hour or two "updating the list" for the doctor. Her love of writing with pens survived right up until she died. In the margins of her third typed will, I found cursive notations in ink, written with one of her fountain pens. I had a good laugh when I read on the very first page, "Sorry for all the notes, I didn't know I was going to live this long."

Dutifully, I have waded through the boxes, referring to the black book often. Of less interest were a few pieces of art glass, mostly 1970's reproductions of earlier French glass. Then I hit this one piece that strangely was not in her book. Nor could I identify it as a commonly reproduced item. I began researching it on the Internet. After contacting the admin of the main reference website, I discovered that my piece seemed to be indeed a very valuable item. What a nice surprise!

A week or so later, I tackled the jewelry. Thrown into one box was a piece wrapped in a paper towel. I almost threw it away! It was a tarnished ornate silver necklace of very high-quality silverwork, with all the stones missing. Another item not in her little black book. It is not unusual for stones to be robbed from a piece and sold separately if they are genuine, especially in silver and not gold. This made me suspicious so I began a scrupulous investigation. My jeweler's loupe revealed that it had maker's marks. More research revealed that the maker was a well-known and respected silversmith in Europe in the 1800's. It appears that in fact, PERFECT pieces of his were are bringing up in the tens of thousands of dollars. With luck, I might be able to find a sophisticated buyer who would want to restore this piece, so I set it aside in a safe place.

Time marched on, and the permanent presence of certain things began to bother me. I have had these two lions sitting on my dresser in my bedroom since Mom passed. They are bronze lions, standing on blocky pink and gray marble bases. There is a pair of them and each one is about a foot long and ten inches high. My triple dresser was the only place in the apartment I had room for them. I had become accustomed to them being there but wanted my dresser back. I was not particularly fond of them and had put off looking them up. So, I began my quest for identifying and evaluating the lions. It seems that, like the art glass and the necklace, they are quite valuable. Mom had not mentioned these in her little black book either.

Like many daughters during the pandemic, I did not have an opportunity to hold Mom’s hand and tell her good-bye - much less ask about “things”. As swamped as I have felt with so many things to go through, other days they bring me a feeling of being close to her. Her housemate told me that in the last few years she bought items knowing that they would eventually come to me. Whether Mom knew about the most valuable pieces or not I will never know, but I suspect not. They were not her taste, but probably things she bought just because her well-developed instinct said they were valuable.

I am now about the age my Mom was when she came off the road. My retirement is modest, bordering on inadequate. My parents were always my inspiration. Neither of them graduated from high school but they both were bright, intelligent people. They managed to have a lifestyle for 30 years that many would envy. I am hearing in my head my Dad's wise advice regarded making money with antiques. He would often tell me that things are only worth what people are willing to pay for them. Find that person and then sell! So, using the wisdom my Dad imparted to me, my task is clear. I now have to find the people to match the items Mom left me. I am sure that some collector will be fascinated with these items as I am. Once buyers are found and items are sold, the items missing from her inventory, plus the items in her little black book should bring me a welcome sum of over $20,000.

Mom and Dad believed in hard work, and somehow I think she would be smiling down knowing that I am going to have to work for my reward. To my Mom in Heaven, I say thank you. I promise I will take care of the lovely things I can keep, and see that the others have good homes. I will cherish your little black book. Love you, Mom!