From the Old Homeplace to the Road

Something came up for me while I was staging my mobile antiques setup. It might seem, dear reader, that this business came from nowhere, but I assure you it didn’t. It’s been long ingrained in me, rooted in an early chapter of my life—one I didn’t fully recognize until I was grown and on my own in upstate New York. I remember my dad commenting once that I wasn’t into antiques, but I think what I really wasn’t into at the time were the long hours spent in every antique store we came across. Little did I know that years later, I would welcome those hours.

Back to staging the mobile setup. I sourced everything from what I already have on hand, and I’ll admit I’ve been thinking about this project for a long time. I’ve had plenty of time to imagine what the van could look like. Ideally, I’d have a vintage van painted pink or green to match my brand colors—or even a deep navy blue. But I have what I have, and since I bought this van three years ago for this very venture, I’m going to use it.

As I started putting the van together, I thought about each piece and what it means to me. Some of it comes from my dad’s family. Some pieces are from my thrifting and yard sale adventures. Some aren’t even vintage or antique—they just sparked something in me. Some are reproductions. And all of that is okay. For me, it’s about the story each piece tells.

Every item, at some point in its varied life, has a story. While I don’t know the exact details, I can imagine—or even create—a story about its origins. Take those handkerchiefs for example. I used to buy them in lots when I went thrifting. I don’t know what my intentions were with buying them, but they definitely sparked something in me. I am ready to let them go now but first I will use them at the Clinch River Antique Festival in my inspiration garden booth.

I don’t know who Sally is, or was, but I can imagine her lovingly hand-stitching her name on those lovely pieces of fabric. I can see her pulling it out of her handbag. Once upon a time ladies used to carry these hand embroidered clothes with them everywhere they went. I remember finding them all over my mamaw’s house. She gone now as well as her house, but it still pulls on my memory when I see them.

My intention with reselling isn’t to make a quick buck. Of course, we all want to make money, but for me, it’s about telling regional stories. I’ll start here in Southern Appalachia, with quintessential Appalachian items: enamel bowls, quilts, milk cans, wooden pieces, and milk glass (I used to be an avid collector). As I travel, I’ll source items from each place I go—things that represent those regions. What I find in Maine will look different from what I find in Montana. But there will be a thread running through everything: each piece will spark joy, not just for me, but for the person who picks it up.

Someone in Montana might pick up a nautical piece I found in Maine. I can picture the thoughts transferring from the object to that person. Even if they don’t take it home, they’ll think about it. They’ll consider its story. I can’t tell you how many times that’s happened to me.

As I think about my setup—beyond the items themselves—I consider what I want people to walk away understanding. The layout matters, too. I want people to see that I’m not just a dealer—I represent the past, the present, and the future. Everything is carefully considered, down to a modern portable record player that not only plays records but can connect to my phone. I can play whatever fits the moment: bluegrass in the Appalachian mountains, maybe some CAAMP in Montana, and jazz when we stop in St. Louis. Maybe we’ll discover local music along the way—stop in for a show or two. I love small live music venues.

We all know this on some level, right? But for me, it goes deeper. It’s my “why” for doing this work. It overlaps with my editorial work and my lived experiences. I think about the farms, the tools, and the hands that made, grew, and built things. I think about my dad growing up on his Appalachian farm—and how he felt embarrassed by it. I think about the things I’ve uncovered since moving back to the old homeplace and wonder why they were stored away instead of displayed.

I think about my papaw’s pie safe—the one I’ve been restoring, the one my dad had started to restore. I think about where it sat, what it held. I found old buttons tucked into the cracks of one of its drawers. Where did those buttons come from? What stories could they tell?

Because maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not about knowing every detail of where something came from, but about what it sparks in us when we find it. These pieces have been carried through time by other hands before mine. For a little while, I get to carry them—and maybe pass them along to you. The memories. The questions. The feeling that something lived a full life before it ever reached us—and will keep living long after.

I hope you stop by, pick something up, turn it over in your hands, and wonder where it’s been. I hope it reminds you of something—or helps you create something new. I’ll see you in May, friends.