I remember when I was a kid, I used to hate being dragged by my mom from one thrift store to the next.
They always had that same smell: old, musty, and out-dated. I would wrinkle up my nose and pretend not to be interested in the hordes of cast off junk. But my mom was a second-hand queen. She planned entire trips on how many thrift stores were on each route. I don't remember when I finally surrendered my aloofness and started to anticipate the regular thrifting jaunts. Maybe it was when I found my first pair of purple z cavarichis, or discovered shelves stacked to the ceiling with books. These eclectic shops of 'once agains' grew on me and I fell in love with the treasure hunt.
It's a regular hobby of mine now, scourging the second hand shelves for that one-of-a-kind beauty. Lately, my eye has been drawn to the warm tones of vintage landscapes and oil prints. They fit right in with my antlers, don't you think? I think, perhaps, I'm a little homesick, too. I noticed tonight while I was talking to my honey and he called my style "granny", that my pictures shared one common theme: memories of my childhood home. There's a little barn and a windmill in one picture, a bright red barn in another, and one more old barn in a prairie scene (fyi: there are a lot of barns where I grew up and a really big one on my ranch). You can take a girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl. I'm looking forward to visiting my parents on our ranch up in Nebraska this summer. It's all my kids can talk about and every night before Thad goes to sleep he asks me to tell him stories about growing up in the country.
I love to tell them. And I can't wait for him to experience them.
Right now, though, I'm content just having a piece of my old home on these walls of a place so very home to me.