I t’s no big secret that my beloved spouse, Pat, and I love antiques. We love to dig for them, shop for them and incorporate them into every aspect of our lives. We fix them, refinish them and, at the end of a long day, sit down and view about any program that involves them.
You’ve got your appraising shows, dickering hillbillies and fine folks learning all about their vintage wares at pawn shops.
We’re really nothing like “American Pickers,” Pat’s favorite of all TV shows. Mainly because, when we travel, our children are usually along for the ride, but not on board with the idea of hanging out at antique shops.
I suppose you can’t blame our boys for not loving our passion. They have been subjected to old stuff for the bulk of their young lives, and although I assure them that someday they will thank us, they are hardpressed to believe that one day they will reap the rewards of our passion.
Pat and I have been known to pull up to an antique shop and bargain with our offspring for a 15-minute antique reprieve. We will trade a half-hour stint in a vintage store for a day at an amusement park, and have been known to let our children order anything on the next menu if they will let us stop into any junk store for “just a quick look.”
Ain’t nothing cheap about that!
Although we have been known to fake a tire check and run like the wind before the kids knew we made a break for it, we know our boys won’t always be traveling with us. By and large, these days we know the vacation is about them.
We spent our recent vacation traveling along the shoreline of the Mississippi River. Since our older two sons had obligations that kept them from spending time with the “old folks,” we only had our Lawrence and Little Charlie along for the ride.
“And we’re not stopping at any antique shops!” Charlie declared from his back-seat post, which included an iPad and headphones. Then he and Lawrence went on to recall vacations from days gone by that included, but weren’t limited to, antique malls, flea markets and a little mom-andpop stop in the middle of — and I quote — “stinking nowhere.”
Sometimes kids just don’t appreciate a good thing. We stopped in a couple of towns along the mighty river. We had ice cream, bought souvenirs and chatted it up with townsfolk. We visited an aquarium, toured through a museum and then headed south.
While I was loath — even for a minute — to give up the breathtaking views, we needed a place to stay on Saturday night. I put on my cheaters and commenced to looking up hotels on my phone — a daunting task if ever there was one.
As Pat slowed down for yet another river town, I looked up to see the streets were packed with people.
“What’s going on here, do you suppose?” I asked as I peered over my reading glasses.
“I don’t know,” Pat responded. “A sign back there said it’s Buffalo Bill’s birthplace.” “Do you boys want to stop,” I asked of our backseat sidekicks. “How many places has that man been born in?” one of them asked.
“Doesn’t look like anything special,” another replied.
So off we went without so much as giving the town a second thought.
“I wonder why this area is so busy?” Pat asked some two hours later as we pulled into Iowa City.
“It’s probably where Buffalo Bill graduated from high school,” I said sarcastically.
“What was the name of the town he was born in?”
“Le Claire,” I replied.
“Argh!” Pat exclaimed.
“Ah, man!” Charlie echoed.
“Are you kidding me?” Lawrence asked with great disappointment.
“What?” I asked.
“Le Claire is where the ‘American Pickers’ store is located!”
It was most likely the only antique shop that we could have entered without complaint or debarked upon without pretending to check the tires — and Pat and I, the great antiquers of our time, rolled on past its establishment in blissful ignorance.
I am not going to feel better about it for a while. Even if I do get to order whatever I want off the menu.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].