Arts & Manners: Rummaging

The archaeologist sifting tons of earth in hopes of discovering a lost finger of the Aphrodite of Cnidos, the skindiver risking his lungs in a search for pirate gold off the Bermuda coast, the little boy prayerfully digging for arrowheads in New York’s garbage-strewn Inwood Park, the staid married couple plying a gleaming station wagon from one Oide Antique Shoppe to another—all have in common the urge to “pick up” for little or nothing something worth— well, a lot more. And while most of us can’t dig in Samothrace, or swim well enough to dive for pieces of eight, or wouldn’t know an Indian arrowhead if we sat on one, nearly all of us red-blooded American adults, male and female, can and do go antiquing on the perfectly valid assumption that “you never can tell, it might be worth a lot of money,” and anyway, “it will look great on the mantle.” Antiquing probably ranks with baseball as America’s favorite outdoor sport.

At this point I must confess that my husband and I are afflicted with a virulent case of antiquitis. Our excuse is that he collects tobacco pipes, but even if he didn’t, the sign Antiques, especially if hand-lettered, reacts on us as catnip to a cat; we simply have to stop and look even when we’re stone broke, hungry, thirsty or an hour late for a party after already losing our way.

RB

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Ruth Berenson

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The archaeologist sifting tons of earth in hopes of discovering a lost finger of the Aphrodite of Cnidos, the skindiver risking his lungs in a search for pirate gold off the Bermuda coast, the little boy prayerfully digging for arrowheads in New York’s garbage-strewn Inwood Park, the staid married couple plying a gleaming station wagon from one Oide Antique Shoppe to another—all have in common the urge to “pick up” for little or nothing something worth— well, a lot more. And while most of us can’t dig in Samothrace, or swim well enough to dive for pieces of eight, or wouldn’t know an Indian arrowhead if we sat on one, nearly all of us red-blooded American adults, male and female, can and do go antiquing on the perfectly valid assumption that “you never can tell, it might be worth a lot of money,” and anyway, “it will look great on the mantle.” Antiquing probably ranks with baseball as America’s favorite outdoor sport.

At this point I must confess that my husband and I are afflicted with a virulent case of antiquitis. Our excuse is that he collects tobacco pipes, but even if he didn’t, the sign Antiques, especially if hand-lettered, reacts on us as catnip to a cat; we simply have to stop and look even when we’re stone broke, hungry, thirsty or an hour late for a party after already losing our way.