There was a time when I could spot a piece of brown transferware pottery from across a crowded flea market. My pulse would quicken before I even reached it. Breathless, I’d turn it over, admiring the maker’s mark and the fine crackle that proved it had lived a life long before mine. I asked about the provenance, inquiring about its age and birthplace.
I wasn’t just a collector. I was obsessed.
Of course, we all have our own version of “brown transferware.” For some, it’s vintage quilts, fishing lures, old recipe books, first-edition novels, or rare garden plants. Whatever it is, it was never really about the objects themselves. It was about what they meant.
My fascination began with my father. When I was little, he’d take me to neighborhood garage sales with a couple of quarters tucked into my pocket. We’d sift through dusty books, glassware, and other forgotten treasures. He taught me that the best things in life aren’t always shiny and new. Sometimes they’re quietly waiting for the right person to discover their beauty again.
Years later, I found myself searching not just for antiques, but for something that would make me excited about tomorrow. Estate sales became my therapy, and collecting became my happy place. Before sunrise on Sunday mornings in the late 1970s, coffee in hand, my sisters-in-law Brenda and Sharon riding shotgun, we’d follow hand-painted signs to church rummage sales, flea markets, and country barns. The hunt was everything.
I searched with the determination of a bloodhound, looking behind stacks of dishes, under tables, and on the highest shelves where others rarely bothered to look. Finding a beautiful brown transferware platter for ten dollars that should have cost ten times as much felt like winning the lottery. Every piece carried the memory of an adventure, or the thrill of discovering something everyone else had overlooked. Whenever I use these dishes, I smile.
Then Martha Stewart announced she loved brown transferware too. I’ve never quite forgiven her. Almost overnight, prices soared, eBay became a battlefield, and my quiet little obsession turned into a very expensive hobby.
Still, my shelves filled. Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t just collecting antiques. I was rebuilding myself. Before long, I was buying and selling them, along with my own art, encouraging friends to hunt alongside me and discover treasures of their own.
Last weekend, on a whim, I wandered through a nearby estate sale and stopped in my tracks. Hanging on the wall was one of my own signed paintings from 1989. It was wonderful to see it there, even with its chipped, dusty frame.
As I walked away, I realized something was different. I have a house full of treasures that no longer bring quite the same excitement they once did. The dishes are still beautiful, unchanged, but I have.
Some of those once-prized finds are tucked away in boxes, waiting for someone else’s heart to race the way mine once did. A few favorites will always remain. They’ve earned their place, along with great memories of the hunt.
These days, though, I’ve noticed my eye has wandered. I’m captivated by outsider art, the wonderfully raw creations of untrained hands. Whimsical. Strange. Funny. Honest. Maybe I’m no longer searching for perfection. Maybe I’m searching for authenticity. Or perhaps that’s what I was collecting all along.
Sometimes I look around my house and wonder who will care about my pretty treasures. Then I remind myself that they already served their purpose. They mattered not because they were valuable, but because they gave value to my life.
They carried me through grief and loneliness. They kept me connected to my father long after he was gone. They introduced me to wonderful friends. They gave me purpose when I desperately needed one. They reminded me that joy can still be found in unexpected places.
As we grow older, many of us begin giving away things that once meant everything. My cabinet grows a little sparser. Treasures are labeled with children’s names or given away as gifts. Cookbooks and favorite novels find new readers when they land at Bookstock.
Sometimes people assume these things no longer matter. But they do. They helped shape the lives we’ve lived. The beautiful part is this: letting go of an object doesn’t mean letting go of its story.
That’s what I see every day here at JSL. Someone discovers a love of painting they never knew they had. Someone who insisted they weren’t “a joiner” becomes the first to arrive for creative writing class. New friendships begin over coffee. Laughter echoes around the dinner table. New memories quietly take their place beside the old ones.
Perhaps that’s one of the greatest gifts of growing older. We never stop becoming.
May we continue to find joy in what we’ve loved, gratitude for what we’ve lived, and excitement for what’s still to come.
Shabbat Shalom
