Layers

Layers

            Layers, in this essay, are not about egg laying poultry production.

            Layers, in this essay, are not about the clothing worn in Maine during the winters.

            Layers, in this essay, are about the ‘things’ (“the stuff”) in old houses and the role the

            Layers of that “the stuff” play in my interest in pursuing an active excavation within the ‘things’ found in the layers of the stuff within an old house.  And:  How I make very rapid intuitive decisions about the state of the layers and their potential to harbor “good” antiques and rare books.

            Layers is about the behind my eyes walk through of what I see when I

            Walk through.

            To begin with, I am looking for layers.  Once I see them (sense them), I look at them “very hard”.  I am told.  Of course I never let on that I am doing

            That.

            I don’t even ever tell anyone at all about layers.

            And very few people ever figure that out

            Anyway.

            That pretty much leaves me alone... in an old house... looking at the layers.

            “If you don’t know... you don’t know” with this including the what... you... don’t know.

            Yes:  There is that much of a bottom drag on all this that the mire of that usually wins.  ‘Winning’ is that the ‘the stuff’ in the ‘the layers’ is protected and preserved for the ‘few people ever figure that out’ give up, cease actions and... go away.  Presuming I have been “let in”... I then am ‘left alone’ with the layers and... well...

            That is that.

            What does that mean?  It means that the next time any ‘few people’ go into the old house it is empty; it has been ‘cleaned out’.  I did that.  I don’t talk about that.  I just do it.  I take away everything including all the layers.  I take away every... thing.  That is what I do.

            I have to take away every thing so I may be sure that all ‘the stuff’ in the layers of household contents is... “complete”.  For example, I do not want to have you suddenly latching on to, and keeping (taking out of the estate contents), your grandmother’s teaspoon that she

            Administered her medicines to her self in addition to stirring her tea with it for

;            SEVENTY-FIVE YEARS.

            It is MY SPOON NOW; part of the LAYERS.

I BOUGHT and OWN IT

            Now.

            IN SHORT... I want it all; all ‘the stuff’ and all the layers, complete.  Nothing is left out or left behind.

            Of course there are stupid people meddling with this by, well, “wanting”... stupid things.  A good example is a “FAMILY” “PAINTING”.  The house contents “HAS ONE”; an ‘old’ ‘oil’ painting and it is too... an “I WANT”.

            “Yes.  Okay.  Here we go.”

            I say that and finalize with “Take it:  It is all yours.”  Delighted, they scurry away clutching the “PAINTING”... too.  Occasionally I am asked “what do I think” of the “PAINTING”.  For these sorts of paintings I do not have to think and... carefully sidestep what I actually ...feel... about the “PAINTING”.  No reason to spoil such fun.  Right?

            What am I conveying here exactly?  I am assuring that ...in most all cases... old “PAINTINGS” found in old New England layered home contents are of little merit or value.  The big feature is that they are “FREE” when found in an estate so... continue the heritage of the painting as being ‘good’ because it

            Allows folks who have never owned a painting... who would never buy a painting (Yankee Wasp characteristic)... who know nothing about “PAINTINGS”... have barely ever looked at a “PAINTING” and... etcetera.... to ‘smug up’ about a truly crummy ‘thing’ that they found in the bedroom of long dead great-uncle George. “WHERE” (what, how, why) “DID HE GET THAT!”

            Great Uncle George was a quasi trash picker later examination of his layer reveals.  But I never say anything about that fine old cheapskate Yankee bugaboo.  I, too, certainly do not stop the purloinment of the old painting “within the estate” (private family distribution).  A problem with this last is that the purloin does not have an ‘appraised value’.  I ‘don’t do those things’ (appraisals) I say when queried.  And... they DO ‘love’ “IT” (that painting) still:  “It is valuable”.  What ever that means.

            Turning from an example of stupid people meddling and ‘wanting’ to the actual layer-e (a plural), I advise from the get-go that that is where one should ‘seek’ layers.  Most all of those layer-e... who were any good at it... are

            Dead. 

But look for “fondly remembered family” trails and you’ll start to notice, for example, old but recent photographs of the short past generation’s grand old bitch matron who ‘rode herd’ over the house, the family, the things, the stuff and... their layers.  Spot that woman and you are way ahead of great-uncle-George (Dartmouth 1928)’s old painting that I assure the Matron dismissed too.

            Now I with her, eye to eye including she KNEW what I KNOW... lets me tie off with clothes line rope “HER” “DESK”.  That is, I tie the whole Grand Old Bitch Matron’s desk up like it’s a crate full of “stuff” packed by the “FAMILY” in its drawers and... never looked at...:  If the Matron was alive she would spend TWO WEEKS showing me EACH iota in the drawers ‘from her family’ but... as it is I am the best game in town so her ghost lets me tie it off and carry it out... unchallenged.  Yes and that cubby is full of ‘all about the family’ including great uncle George at Dartmouth in twenty-eight.  She, bless her ghost soul, gives me the maelstrom center of her layer whole.  It proves to be the skeleton key to ALL the home’s layers.

            Traveling from crummy old painting to tied off desk holding the family’s preserved archive... are one sensing the meaning of layers?  Who is doing better at this?  Once I locate and purloin the master vault box I simply pile the rest of all of the layers “in there” on top of this golden treasure chest and... I don’t, once I remove all the layers undisturbed and intact... have to touch them for years... should I choose. “Storage” is a big feature of my antiquarian dealer side.  And of course... am I in some sort of hurry doing this?

            No.

            That (hurry) is too... a fatal mistake.  Not in a hurry allows one to absorb the layers better (mentally and physically).  Six layers are like reading a six volume family history (as if they are old books in dust jackets).  I enjoy studying the souls of the layers for... as long as their intrigue lasts... preferring them with a strong “dash”, that they are characters and too... “did something”.

            May I review?

            Layers are a multitude of ‘things’ (“the stuff”) that make them up.  They are not ‘a thing’ or single things or great things or fine things.  No.  They are not an actual old painting.  But they are part of a layer’s painting.  They are the gathered material residue of old dead souls; the stuff they ‘left behind’.  They are little things in abundance that ‘don’t matter at all’ until noticed that they are part of a layer.  Perhaps even a very notable layer... that is surrounded by other related layers of related layer-e dead souls.  It (layers) do become quite rich and reaching “very fast”... should one learn to look.  For example the OLD SHAVING equipment for eight different men of a time passage of one hundred and ten years...  Each shaver was young, then old, then dead ‘in there’; in THEIR layers.  The shaving equipage is “worthless” without the association; its role in the layer.  The layer is worthless without its soul.  The soul is found in “the stuff”.  The more stuff in a layer...  It (an estate and its layers) may become vivid beyond words and last for decades.  By 1969 I had become familiar with and knowing of layered estates.  In 1973 I acquired my first full bore layers estate that “lasted for decades”.  There are still bits, pieces and smidgens of that one around to this day.

            “You may not want to wipe the old pigeon dung off the chair when you get one (a layered estate)” an old dealer advised me early.

Covered Bridges

Covered Bridges

“What is an influence?” I was asked.

            “Guillaume Apollinaire.” I replied. “He wrote in circles you know”.

            “Was he poetic society?”

            “Of course.”

            “So you feel you are that too?”

            “No.  I cannot find society.  That reads”.

            “Well what do you do about that”.

            “Covered bridges.”

            “Covered bridges?”

            “I visit my covered bridges.”

            “Visit them?  I’ve done that too.”

            “No you haven’t.  You’ve just driven through them

            On occasion.

            I visit them; their society.

            No one is ever there.

            Except on rare occasion; a ‘someone there’.

            That’s the society of it; them there.  Or not there.

            I don’t care.”

            Mostly, it is very empty; their visits.

            But every now and then there is a poet

            Visiting the same bridge that I visit

            Just right there then.

            Sometimes we exchange pleasantries

            But I’d rather not

            And if they do... it is a signal that

            Society is better lost

            At a covered bridge.

            I am very protective of my covered bridges

            I don’t let on

            Even when I am standing in one.

            Just better to not say anything

            You know what I mean.

            And I can’t take the old bridge home with me.

            So much of what I did or did do

            Was a covered bridge.

            They get wash down stream you know

            On occasion.

            Washed away

            They say.

            With my cover bridges;

            I have had a lot of that; the washed away.

            I do not really stand back and view that.

            Just tried to do a good job of it.

            Then let chance comeback on a visit

            To that bridge and

            Discover its cover is still intact;

            It is still a ‘my covered bridge’

            “There:  That one”.

            Your not suppose to talk about this

            I know.

            I have a few books on them; covered bridges.

            Open to a page and ‘There’s one’.

            “I’ve been to that one” (visited it)

            “Stood right over there.  Had a postcard of it.  Once.

            My covered bridge stood next to me right then.

            Everything was just fine and it was middle fall and

            Colored leaves blew along the sand of the road just like

            They are suppose to.  I remember watching them

            Do that:

            The leaves blow in the dry fall sand.  I didn’t even know

            I could see that:  Dry fall sand blowing.

            When I am visiting my cover bridges.

            Leave the book open to a page to remind yourself

            I say.

Dead Mother's Place

Dead Mother's Place

They sold everything in their mother’s summer

Place to me.

I bought everything in their dead mother’s

Summer place.

They were “glad to be rid of it” they said

When I paid them.

The oriental rugs on the boathouse floor.

The oil paintings hanging in the horse stalls in

The barn.

A broken Tiffany floor lamp

In the upstairs’ hall closest.

“You can see all the islands from here.”

“My mother kept it that way.”

“That was her desk over there.”

“This is where the servants lived.”

Most of the silver was taken in the robbery

Except for the dinner soon lying between

The granite stones of the front steps.

I took that for my collection.

Several family members wanted

The painting

Of the ship at sea

In the storm.

They “didn’t want the memories”

In boxes stacked behind, before

 Down under

And up above – in the back.

  

They screeched when the

Bats flew in the attic

The water had been turned off

So no one could wash their hands.

“Can you?”

“How soon?”

And “All of it?”

“You want all of it?”

“So much of it is trash.”

“Our plane is on Friday morning.”

“My sister doesn’t want that

after all.”

I promised myself I wouldn’t

Show too much interest,

But I did bring three trucks

For the first three loads.

They wanted to help

But got tired and dirty

And hungry and hot

And Itchy and stabbed through

By the

Ghost bitch devil

Scratching and clawing

In their brains.

“Feel guilty.” They said

And wanted to

Wash their hands

And “be rid of it”.

Stand

Stand

            A

            One drawer

            Stand.

            A

            One drawer

            Sewing stand.

            A

            Two drawer

            (Sewing) stand.

            A

            Hepplewhite

            (American Federal)

            (Straight taper leg)

            One drawer (Two drawer)

            (Sewing) stand.

            A

            Sheraton

            (American Federal, Sheraton, Empire, Transitional

            Or Victorian

            “Style”

            (Turned leg)

            One drawer (two drawer)

            (Sewing) stand.

            “From my grandmother’s

            House”.

            “She:

            I believe

            She,

            Had several more.

            I don’t know what happened to

            Those”.

            “In her house

            I believe

            She always had

            (Several) more of those

            Tables (‘little tables’)

            Around.  Didn’t she?

            I cannot remember but:

            I know

            They are not tables

            They are

            One drawer

Stands.

            They stand

            In old New England.

            They stand

            In old New England

            Homes waiting

            On the dead great

            Grandmother’s sewing

            Still in the drawer

            Of her

            One (two) drawer

            Sewing

            Stand she

            Had beside her chair when

            My mother was a

            Little girl.

            Her grandmother would look up

            From her sewing stand;

            Its drawer(s) pulled open.

            Each evening by

            Candlelight she

            Sewed there

            In her chair.

            “What ever became of that?”

            I used to be able talk to a women but something happened and she moved out to an island off the coast.  Or something like that.  She had a ‘table’; “my little table”

            “Why do you always want that?” she’d say.  “My little table”.

            I never told her why.  It was (is) a New England (Maine) made Maplewood two drawer finely lathe turned Sheraton leg (so ‘fine’ that “the edge of a dime” shows if slipped under the bottom of a foot) with its original and intended rosewood grain painted surface with old shellac surface solid bird’s eye maple drawer fronts and... its original English stamped brass ring rosette (drawer) pulls (“knobs”) with, too,

            Her sewing

            In the drawers.

            These drawers were always ‘pulled’... sort of... ‘open’.

            No one ever bothers me about these old stands.  They have nothing to do with me anyway.  Beside I noticing them.  And knowing them (a ‘good one’).  I would never tell anyone that I “look for them”.  No:  I wouldn’t ever do that.  Would I.  I would never want anyone to know what a ‘good one’ is.  Would I.  No.  They are just “that little table... over there... too.  I’d like that too”.  Kind of attention ‘to that’:

            An old New England one drawer (two drawer) (sewing) “STAND”.

            “That was my mother’s”

They always say

            When I say

            “I want that too.”

            And start to

            Carry it

            Away.

            I have a funny little thing about that; the ‘carry it away’.  I have these supple soft nylon cords neatly rolled behind the seat of the truck that would ...never ever scratch the surface of an

            Old New England one drawer sewing stand that I use to

            Tie it off

            To make sure the drawer

            Doesn’t fall out

            On the driveway

            And smash.

            No.  A lot of the time I am the first person to “TAKE” the little table; an

            Old New England one drawer sewing stand

            Out of the old New England home... ever since

            That ‘table’

            Came into the house... except, of course, for

            The few times

            On hot August evenings when ‘one of the family’

            Carried it out “won’t you please”

And set it next to (great) Grandmother’s (porch rocking) chair

             For “her”

            Yes... of course there is that.  Sometimes they didn’t take it back inside

            Until the next morning.

            It (the old New England one drawer sewing stand) was

            Out all night.

            If I’d known that I’d of come by and made off with it.

            I’d pick it up with my hand under the front drawer rail and

            Push my thumb on the drawer front

            So that drawer would not fall out

            And smash on the sidewalk.  

            I’ve carried a lot of them off that way

            Over the years.

            Do you really want me to talk to you about this?

            It is a very private little world

            In the old New England home.  When I take the old sewing stands out

            Of there

            For the first time they have ‘ever’

            I know it.

            I know exactly what I’m doing in addition to

            Knowing exactly

            “How good that stand is”.

            “That’s a NICE little TABLE.”

            One woman said to me once

            When I was loading a stand I’d just bought into the truck.

            Another woman, after selling her family’s stand to me, said, over and over

            “Good-bye little stand, good-bye.”

            While I carried it out

            Of her home.