My lifelong love of antiques began on a trip to Milford, Pa., at the age of 6 in a barn that doubled as an antique shop. It was dark and, even on that hot summer day, cool. The only available light fought its way through the dust-speckled panes of glass in the small windows. Broken or missing panes provided the only breeze whose eddies dustladen cobwebs undulated like tentacles on an air-born jellyfish. With the exception of the narrow, winding paths, every square foot from the rafters to the walls was filled with strange, old things. It was heaven, a junkman's dream—I'd found paradise.
Victorian furniture in torn black material leaked horsehair stuffing. Oil lamps, coffee grinders, crocks, bottles, marble-top furniture, clocks, engravings, pier mirrors, candlesticks and all type of household goods covered the walls, posts, and wide floorboards; the horse stalls were piled with chairs. An unfortunate owl, stuffed sometime during the 19th century, stared dolefully down from the rafters, his wide eyes pleading, “Please take me home.” I took him home. Next, I encountered a small wood crate stamped “From G. Cramer Dry Plate Co. St. Louis, MO.” The box, originally meant to ship photographic plates, was fullday when they left with me on another leg of their previously un-recorded travels. I still have the elephant and the photographs, the owl, as you will learn, was bartered to improve the expanding needs of my newfound business.
