Saturday, as The Husband and I were driving home from the bank, we happened upon a yard sale (and by "happened upon," I mean we were driving along when I spotted these quilts and yelled "Quiltsatayardsale, quiltsatayardsale, PULLOVERPULLOVER!).
Each of them was $45, and as soon as the word "fortyfive" left the lady's mouth, I remembered that I was carrying a $50 bill with me... I was excited. SO excited. I was going to buy a vintage quilt! YESSSSS! I looked at each of the quilts. They were deliciously old, unevenly bleached by the sun, tattered, stained, and one of them even sported a rip. I loved them, especially this one:
But as I was mentally preparing to barter for this quilt, I suddenly realized that I couldn't go through with it. I thought I'd hang the quilt on the wall in my studio, but then I'd have to look at it every day, and frankly, as much as I loved those quilts, they depressed me. It seemed fundamentally wrong to me that these well-loved quilts should be sold to random people on a sunny Saturday, forever separating them from the family that ought to be cherishing them and handing them down to the next gereation.
And so I chickened out. And the rest of my sunny Saturday had a sad aftertaste. I'm not cut out for antiquing, I suppose. I can't shake the feeling of "that's not mine." Weird, huh?