Last night, I braved the opening night of an estate sale and the real-estate-voyeurism alone was enough to make fighting the crowd of antiquers worth it. The house was incredible – at least 100 years old, with most of the original layout (a cook’s kitchen and a true butler’s pantry included). It’s coal shoots were still functioning (although obviously not in use). The windows were original. The doors were cherry, and all the trim was re-finished wood.
It had an upstairs library and a Narnia-style wardrobe in one of the bedrooms:
It’s for sale, for a zillion times less what it would be worth in St. Louis – another perk of smaller-town living, I suppose.
The house was full of antiques, none of which matched my “NEED” list, so I walked out with picture frames only (although I did come close to buying a hat rack). It would have been a different story had these been for sale:
I’ll admit it, I’m a lover of barrister bookcases. The house had three antique ones in fantastic shape – so beautiful I climbed over the book-searchers craving a price tag. No luck – all three were not for sale. The estate sale ladies gave me oh-I-know-I-want-them-too eyes when I asked. Some day …
Critter update: No possum sighting last night (HURRAY) and more dead ants this morning. Must be all the rain.