Passing On The Trait For Bargain Hunting
by BARBARA DICKINSON

My children-all five of them-are the joys of my life. They are my gift, my legacy, my memorial to the world. Of course, with the joy I have in my offspring there is great pride: pride in their individual achievements, of success after adversity, character built upon failures and accomplishments after education and experience. But one of the guiltiest specks of pride I harbor is that each of my five has inherited my own predilection for prowling for bargains.

It’s in our genes. I came by this trait honestly, for my mother was a snooper and a shopper from the 1920’s. On one occasion, she shocked my father and me by sawing a dressing table into three sections because she didn’t like its size. From one enormous “vanity,” she created three attractive pieces, later “antiqued” with creamy enamel glazed with turquoise. She enjoyed using the set in her bedroom until her death.

Another time Mother discovered a walnut side table in a chicken coop. It almost caused the car to catch on fire hauling it home, but that is another story. My son has enjoyed that lovely table for over 10 years (after I passed it on to him).

It was only natural that I, child of the Depression, inherited this make-something-out-of-nothing trait and a love for the hunt. One of my earliest prizes-a double school desk with wrought iron legs-came from a Goodwill Store in Annandale, Virginia, my former residence. When I moved to Roanoke in the early ‘50’s I found its sister desk in the Goodwill Store. My husband used to joke that our house was the only one in the city where the Goodwill truck made drop-offs, not pick-ups. I have since repaid Goodwill many times over with carloads of loot.

Other finds have come unexpectedly, like the handsome shoeshine chair with magazine rack. It was sitting and waiting for me on Grandin Road. A child’s maple hobby horse that sang out, “Buy me!” as I passed by on Williamson Road. I have inherited and purchased some furniture, but my treasures are the bargains I have gleaned in antique and junk shops here and abroad, from Botetourt to Brussels.

Did I mention earlier that my children have this same “disease”? One of the proudest moments I can remember is my second son asking if I would take him to an antique shop to look for a dining room table. He still has it, purchased for a song and with an extra smaller table thrown in for good measure. A daughter moving to a new home asked if I knew any place where she could locate a unique table for a specific area. I took her in hand to the premier salvage locale where we forgot ourselves for several hours. She emerged with the makings of a fabulous iron-gate table and a stone pig dubbed Harley the Hog. (Great door stop for the new front porch.)

Another daughter all but furnished her condo with castoffs and antiques discovered in the Atlanta area. Her only criterion was that each piece had to fit into her aging Volvo sedan. How she managed to lug an enormous sea chest - now coffee table - into the car and then home, defies imagination.

I’ve missed the antiquing junkets of my Prague children. They have combed the Czech countryside for armoires, chests and chairs. And lugged them up five flights of stairs to their loft. Now they are happily ensconced in Portland, Ore., where they can either add to their collection or ship things off to the local Goodwill store.

We are a family of collectors. I look around at the eclectic mishmash of things gathering dust in my own home. I wonder; will anyone want that old thing?

You bet your boots one of my five will claim it!

Barbara Dickinson is a Roanoke novelist and freelance writer.