My wife and her alternate travel buddy went to the beach over the weekend. I was happy for her. I don’t much like the beach. Or the shore. Or most other water related tourist destinations.
One big reason is quarterly visits to a young dermatologist who is very enthusiastic in her search to find something to biopsy. Her fervor at once delights and disturbs me. I have become less of a pincushion of late and I don’t miss the experience.
Another reason is the typical beach activities. The inventory at the local craft shops turn slowly. I’m on a first name basis with the inventory of the antiques shops. Sand gets in my shoes. Too cold to swim now. If I were a swimmer. Beach rentals remind me too much of my first apartment out of college.
I have had business on South Padre Island and in Biloxi over the years and do enjoy the morning walk on the beach. Sunset is nice. It’s the twelve hours in between that makes me yearn to be elsewhere.
This is a long, roundabout way of saying I was free this weekend to do some traveling to far away antiques. Relatively guilt-free. When I went to Atlanta in April, several dealers I talked to said I was there the wrong weekend. I should be there the second weekend of any month to see an extremely large four-day antiques show on the south side of town. This blog isn’t about that show.
This post is about a small shop on the South Carolina/Georgia border. Driving south, I visited two shops in the Greenville, SC area. I was hoping for more but I got off to a late start. Litter boxes, trash and other facts of daily life interceded. I ran out of time after those two shops. (To be covered in a later post.)
Continuing south, I saw a highway sign (billboard) for an antiques shop on the border. I had mixed emotions about the sign. I am a huge fan of Lady Bird Johnson’s Highway Beautification Act of 1965. I believe that sign shouldn’t be there. I should not have read it. But I did. It’s antiques…
I checked while safely stopped at an appropriate location and discovered the shop closed at 5:30 PM. It was Thursday afternoon and my plan was to head home Friday night. A M-WTCA meeting on Saturday looked interesting. I needed to create the impression of being a good husband and clean up the garage and do some yard work. Master illusionist.
Another excellent reason for getting to the shop on earlier on Friday was to get out of Atlanta before rush hour became too intense. Atlanta has some very unpleasant traffic in which I have wasted too much of my life. You know traffic is bad when you start listening to the rebroadcast of Morning Edition or All Things Considered.
I left Atlanta roughly on time and got to the area about 4:45. The GPS couldn’t find their street address. Their billboard said they were behind the Burger King and I selected that address. Wrong one though. Who knew a town of that size had two Burger Kings about a mile apart? I discovered my error and found the shop right where they said it was.
I was not encouraged by what I saw. I’ve seen lots of these antiques dealers in older strip malls just off the interstate. Some are OK and others struggle to qualify as flea markets. This had the potential to be one of the latter. But, I was there. It was there. Traffic this far out wouldn’t get too bad for another 20 minutes.
I went in.
(Click on any picture to enlarge.)
It wasn’t bad. Nothing compared to what I saw earlier in the day but not embarrassing. And here is the proof, a different yet familiar dresser:
With nicely cut thin pins:
A nice, smaller dovetailed chest:
It does have a covered till:
Then there’s this odd little painted chest:
A faux-painted mule chest:
Faux-grained or abstract?
A closer look:
Every house needs a server:
Nice construction details:
A really unique table:
An amazing inalid top:
A decorated column:
And the legs deserve some attention as well:
A lard press:
For more about my previous encounter with a lard press, go HERE.
And, finally, every shop needs at least one piece of really pretentious, over done furniture:
The details make it better:
Interesting finishing technique:
So, even if there is nothing to see, there’s always something to see. Sometimes.