Relics and Renovation

Yesterday I spent the day out with my husband and another couple, good friends from our hometown. We had lunch first in a very nice little deli in a not so nice neighborhood, the area I worked in for seventeen years. The deli sits on a visual dividing line. West of it the old city is trying slowly to make a comeback, its beautiful but time-worn victorian homes being renovated into duplexes and condominiums, the neighborhood trying to regain some of its former elegance and pride, teetering in its effort to hold back the crime and decay. East of the deli the neighborhood has lost its battle, with its boarded up businesses and crumbling houses, its homeless and its addicts roaming the streets, its children growing up too fast into a bleak future. I felt very much at home and found myself watching out the deli window for the familiar faces of some of the street people I had come to know over the years of working down here, wondering if they were still alive, wondering even more how they had wormed their way into my heart in spite of all the problems and extra work they had caused me as the manager of a business in this area. Lunch was very enjoyable, the savory soups and fresh-baked breads delicious as anticipated, the conversation pleasant, and then we were off for an afternoon of antiqueing.

We decided to check out a familiar antique mall in its unfamiliar new location. After finding it and parking, we went in to browse through its four floors of goods. The building is situated on a corner lot at the fringe of the downtown area, with much better access and parking than its former location, but I found it lacking the ambiance that the old location had. Gone are the creaking, groaning wooden floors and the grimy, dirt-caked windows keeping the sun at bay. Instead we walked on concrete and sunlight streamed through the large windows, shining truth on the assorted goods. Gone are the ancient pipes and exposed ductwork hanging high in the ceilings, clanking and clattering like weary bones, barely able to keep up with the demands of the weather. Instead we wandered in a comfortable warmth, jackets folded over our arms. Gone are the buckets lined up along the floor on rainy days to catch the leaks, threatening to baptize anyone not paying attention. Gone are the worries of the precarious state of the old brick building as it rattled and shimmied when the trains rolled by on the nearby tracks, making one consider taking cover. In its stead was nothing, nothing to make you stop to wonder about the structure. Gone was the antique feel of the building itself and with it the sense that one might actually find a treasure hidden somewhere deep within its recesses. I am saddened that I will no longer be able to wander quite so deeply into the past, to get lost in the memories that come naturally when stepping foot inside those doors.

As we browsed, meandering off in our own direction and meeting back up in the next aisle, I happened across a rather unkempt older man, a bit of an oddity compared to the other patrons. He wasn't particularly dirty but rather unruly in his appearance with a patch over one eye, his hair askew and his white beard long and curly, his plaid shirt untucked and hanging below his jacket. He was mumbling something about an object sitting inside a cupboard and at first I thought he was speaking to me. I glanced around but there was nobody else nearby and I thought perhaps he was speaking to his wife without realizing she was no longer beside him. Then he turned and I met his eyes gazing through me, not really seeing me. I smiled. He continued to mutter and shuffled off to the next booth. I wondered if he was just a street person who had wandered in but he continued to talk to some imaginary figure as he picked up one item after another, pondering its age and value, always putting it carefully back on the shelf or table that it belonged on. It seemed he must have done some antiqueing in the past with someone special who was now lost to him and so was carrying on as if she were still here. I thought briefly if this is what I would find myself doing in my future if I were to ever lose my spouse. Would I continue on with the activities that have brought us so much pleasure as a couple, seeking solace in the familiarity, letting the nostalgia shield me from the anguish of loneliness? I was reminded that we should all be careful not to judge too harshly what we don't understand.

I bought three books and a cigarette dispenser that I found amusing even though my spouse and I don't smoke. We met back up with our friends and headed across the river to a restaurant for drinks and dinner. With our bellies full and our moods light we drove back to our home where we discussed the items we had admired but left behind and looked over those that we had purchased, mostly books. We traded thoughts about books we are currently reading and had a slightly heated discussion about politics, shared updates on our families and looked at photos of grandchildren on our computers. All in all, it was a very pleasant day, as it always is when we are together. We will do it all over again another weekend, in another setting, enjoying the slower pace our favorite pasttime has allowed us, spending time with our friends.