Once upon a time in a land faraway, I moved out of Bloggingham and into a tiny one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. Divorce. The dreary building was gray. With lots of concrete. I so hate concrete. No elevators. Just creaky stairs and unlit corners. At least the back deck looked out onto a patch of woods and sometimes I could pretend I was still home in the forest. And I didn't have to clean two stories and take care of dust mites in the dandelions. At least for awhile...
A beginning teacher's salary was not going to pay the bills. I was sad to discover through the years that any teacher's salary is not nearly enough. But that's another story for another day.
After having some luck online selling WWII ephemera and postcards, I decided to try porcelain. My grandmother's beautiful table-setting ways ran through my blood. She adorned her simple table in that tiny tiny kitchen with love and beautiful dishes, even for mundane Monday lunches. She had no idea what she was teaching me.
Or did she?
But back to the land of porcelain poverty...
I needed to make money. Inspired by my grandmother's pottery flair, I went to a huge china sale and bought several hundred pieces of antique and vintage china for $300.00. That was a big expense for me at the time. From the trunk of my car I carried boxes and boxes of tiny teacups and saucers up the single woman's staircase and sorted them out on the floor. I researched comps and history and patterns. I took photographs with a small Kodak camera and learned to edit. That inventory investment netted several thousand dollars and kept me afloat while I transitioned to life as a single woman who would have to support herself. I hadn't been single since I was eighteen-years-old.
It also taught me that I could do what I had to do.
That was twenty years ago.
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| not me...but close |
Teaching by day and side-hustling china by night, kept me out of trouble but exhausted; jumping through academic hoops to earn tenure and writing endless lesson plans at night, grading papers (I had 249 students), then sitting on the floor wrapping reams of bubble-wrap around tiny little delicate dishes and shipping them all over the world. Rinse. Repeat. Strangely enough, through the first few months of that leaving, I was remarkably
happy way down on the inside, even though I remember crying myself to sleep at night too. Divorce will do that to a person - even if you are the one wanting to end the marriage. It's still grief. I had been married for a very long time. I felt strong and weary at the same time, if that makes sense.
It took me some time to get back to Bloggingham Forest (which wasn't even "Bloggingham" until 2006). Concrete became trees again and life finally settled down. I was back to mowing dandelions, serial dating, and dusting the dungeon. One of my boyfriends at the time called it "Our Grotto"...oh, those were the days.
But I digress.
I wonder what happened to him...
A couple of years ago, just before the pandemic rolled in, I started re-selling again. China, not boyfriends. I had leftover dinnerware that needed moving. The first day back online I sold an Aynsley England Rosedale teacup and saucer for $150.00 that I'd paid less than five dollars for. Eureka! Ummm....you might say I was inspired.
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Steubenville porcelain in my store
Mid-Century Modern
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| Aynsley Rosedale |
During my recent COVID recuperation, I binge-watched EBAY resellers' videos and took notes. So much has changed in the world of retail and online business. There's Mercari and Poshmark too! But I can do this. I know I can. It will take a giant sweep of organization and cleaning in the basement
grotto, but I'm feeling better now and besides, I've been on this floor before.
Life, indeed, is cyclical.
Sitting here tonight looking at bubble wrap and boxes on the floor and Ebay in my tabs window, facing another stretch of exciting unpredictable singlehood, I feel a little bit like climbing those stairs again. Not the dismal ones that led a tired teacher to a lonely parking lot, but the ones that lead from my very own underground grotto - whose walls shall never speak a word - to the woman who lives upstairs, still fighting dragons on her own and punching words in the air to see if they'll land in a place she can love. I'm remembering the feel of bubbles on my skin, pennies in my pocket, and the warmth of a strong and saucy man who loved to light candles and kiss me in the dark. Balancing....me....balancing him....swaying and laughing...silk on slippery stairs. Have you ever been carried in arms that would not let you fall?
That's the thing about words and porcelain - as surely as fine bone china is forged with fire, so are words formed with love. And if they are flung with the strongest of care, not a one of them will shatter into pieces weighty enough to break something valuable and true.
And if, by chance, you see a cup marked "Aynsley England"
I have just three words for you -
Pick.It.Up.
Photos: Mimi Lenox and Pixabay's bubblewrap woman
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