I REALLY, HONESTLY, did not need the sewing cabinet I purchased for $30 at a recent yard sale. Although I have a sewing machine and once stitched nearly everything I wore, I don’t sew much any more.
But the rows of old tables lined up on both sides of the cement driveway lured me to look.
Once I saw the shiny Perfect Sewing Cabinet up close, I couldn’t resist its quaint charm—a lid that opens to reveal thread compartments, a curving front, dove-tailed drawers and unique golden knobs accented with amber heads. I already had visually placed the table in a corner of my dining room. With two drawers, it would be so much more practical than the tiny open-shelved table currently occupying that spot.
But for $37, should I buy it? Should I walk away? Pay. Walk. What about that promise to start down-sizing, de-cluttering? Hadn’t my husband and I just returned from the recycling center where we dropped off an old TV, a printer, and a computer monitor and tower?
“Will you take less for it?” I ask the old guy running the sale.
To my surprise, he’ll take $30.
Still, I ask him to “keep my name on it” as I walk further up the driveway, perusing the merchandise while struggling to justify my purchase.
Then I just do it. I open my purse and pull out a $20 bill and two fives and the table is mine.
But I don’t simply walk away. I need to know where this peddler of tables has gotten his goods.
He finds furniture at yard, garage and rummage sales and then refinishes the pieces, he explains. He does magnificent work. Every tabletop shines with a glossy, flawless finish.
Then I learn a bit more. This elderly man (whose name I never do ask), says he rummages all the way to the Veterans Administration Medical Center in Minneapolis, where he’s been doctoring for years.
“World War II?” I ask.
His military time, he says, came between WW II and the Korean Conflict. He was stationed in Alaska, where he injured his back. He’s had numerous surgeries and has a leaky heart valve. But they won’t replace the valve, he says, because during his last heart bypass surgery, doctors had trouble restarting his heart.
And then he tells me that his wife has cancer.
“I’m sorry,” I say, amazed at what people will share because I take the time to genuinely listen. He assures me that she is doing OK.
Then I thank him, wish him well. Randy loads the cabinet from The Caswell-Runyan Co. of Huntington, Indiana, into the back of our van. Then we are on our way with a table that is now more than a piece of furniture. It is also a story of a veteran and a craftsman and a husband whose wife is battling cancer.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling