Of Late

Can you reminisce fondly about a place even before you leave it? This past couple of weeks I've been cataloguing sights and sounds with near-obsessive detail, building a cache of snippets to call upon down the line once this little old house and I part company. It's a creaky sort of place; stoic, patient beams and uneven floors, pockets of bare brick wall and huge sash windows with many a gap in the frames for a determined gust to whistle through. It will be a bittersweet goodbye. A sad farewell to the view of rooftops and trees from my little desk, the sloping ceilings, and visits from the glossy black hobo cat who frequents our courtyard. I won't miss the bad-green bathroom suite or the chipboard kitchen units though, even with my prematurely rose-tinted spectacles sat firmly on the bridge of my nose. The scores of things I love about this small town on the edge of the Peaks, and this house, have all added up to make it feel like home - I have been so happy here.

My in-between moments have been either a flurry of list making - moving is a brilliant excuse to indulge my list habit - or quiet, reflective little things full of simple pleasures. Finding a stunning edition of Keats' Realms of Gold for fifty pence (really!) made it a very good Friday, even if the daffodils I picked up for a pound resolutely refuse to bloom - save one. You cannot beat a bag of snowies for a Saturday treat but during the week I spoilt myself with an epic letter-writing session, then sat back to paw through my collection of old postcards and appreciate their penmanship all over again. The last photo speaks to what triggered our move. T closed the door on being unhappy and unfulfilled in his work, back he goes to freelancing and (hopefully) more room to make dreams a reality - that is something I am more than happy to up sticks for.

Ephemera

Ephemera is a gorgeous word to say aloud, when spoken softly it gives a hint to its meaning - those delicate slices of the everyday never intended to last. Old things come with history no matter how mundane and this is partly what draws me in when I see a battered suitcase or a pristine decades-old teacup, my imagination is captured and suddenly I'm inventing a story - little details of whose hands it passed through and how it came to be where I spotted it. Vintage ephemera though, is even more magical in some ways - ticket stubs, hastily scribbled notes, snapshots and shopping lists which should have had the transient life of a butterfly somehow become a legacy through escaping the bin over and over.  Where a 1920s beaded bag makes me wonder what sort of glamourous parties it was carried to, a bread and butter letter sent the next day thanking the hostess for a lovely evening fills in a few gaps. In a dream world the two would rock up together - one posing all the questions and the other answering with tantalising snippets - this never happens. Or not to me at least! 

One of my friends asked me why I had so many photos of people I didn't know who were most likely dead by now when she saw an open box stuffed with black and white images. Good question. I think it's because in every picture there is a person who was treasured by someone, and even with a date or place written on the back there are stories about each image I will never know. So I'll carry on picking up interesting old photos, pretty vintage postcards and well-read letters when I come across them, they're a beautiful escape to enjoy over a cup of tea every so often.