Old Stuff. by Patresa Hartman

I am surrounded by old things -- antiques. Everything in my new writing room belonged to someone else first -- the bench in the corner was my great great Aunt's; the backless bench behind me sat in my grandmother's laundry room. The splintery wooden orange crates housing a lamp and books were uncovered in Mammaw & Pappaw's garage in Missouri; the kerosene lamp with the green shade, from their cabin in Minnesota. The piano, a 1960 Wurlitzer, I bought for $200 at a consignment shop in Parkersburg, Iowa; the owner and his two teenage sons dropped it in the snow twice while delivering it, and it held its tune.

A few months ago I found an old wall-hanging coat rack at an antique story in Des Moines' East Village -- Found Things. The owner, a gregarious woman with white hair and half moon reading glasses said they think it was part of the frame of an old school house doorway. The wood is thick and weathered. Someone nailed cast iron hooks across the top for coats. It's hanging on my wall now, my coat draped over a hook. I like it there. I wonder of its stories. Sometimes I think if I sit quietly enough it will whisper them to me.

I like old things. I like their stories. I want to know what energy of us they have absorbed -- our molecules seeping into the grains of their wooden planks. I want to know what songs were played on this piano before it came to live with me. Did children neglect to practice? Did pencils fall into the inner machinery and clank whenever someone played notes two octaves above middle C? There is a large, circular water damage spot on the top, and I want to know what plant leaked its nutrients and who got in trouble for it.

The orange crates -- who carried them first? Where have they been? How was the orange crop that year? I imagine tanned forearms and an occasional tattoo. I imagine these crates upside down on a dock, doubling as benches for men smoking cigarettes and laughing about...whatever men who carry orange crates laugh about.

Surrounding myself with old things piques my curiosity. As a writer, I want to squeeze wisdom from these tangible things. I want to know what they would have to say if they could. I am certain they are full.

My Very Accurate Mirrors by Nannette Croce

Remember that Seinfeld episode where Elaine complains about “thin mirrors” in fitting rooms? It makes me appreciate the very dependable full-length mirror in my bedroom. It always shows the true me. It’s one of those antique reproductions that tilts on a stand. Sometimes from cleaning or bumping it tilts the wrong way, making me appear uncharacteristically short and dumpy, but with a slight adjustment I'm back to the tall, slim gal I am in reality.

Lucky I have that mirror, because it’s the only accurate one in the house. The others are so distorted they belong in a fun house. It's like I gain five pounds just by changing rooms.

Now my bedroom mirror isn’t perfect mind you. While great for checking out an outfit, it’s lousy for makeup. I suppose it’s the light or something about the tilt distorting close-ups because it shows lines and wrinkles I don’t have.

My perfect makeup mirror hangs above my dresser. That’s a true antique I inherited from my grandmother, so old in fact, that the surface looks a little grainy, but amazingly I see my face quite clearly with none of the lines my other mirror shows, though they can’t be more than a few feet apart.

I feel sorry for all those poor women stuck with bad mirrors, and I am so grateful for my two very accurate ones.