Antiquing and Gender Politics

Another short creative nonfiction piece I wrote for class - might as well share them now that it's over, right?

Ten Maple is an eclectic antique store I stumbled into one day when I was early for work, delightfully so. It’s located right off a bustling road, but when I parked in their gravel lot I felt like I’d stepped away from the busy world a little bit, hearing the birds chirping in the low-hanging trees and smelling the honeysuckle growing nearby. I made my way up to the front porch of the house, noticing the antiques sitting outside like they’d been there the entirety of their lives – a galvanized watering can, an assortment of terra cotta roosters, a concrete statue of a rabbit. The house has white siding with blue accents, and there’s a deep brick porch in the front, providing lots of shade for the chalkboard signs hanging out front: ‘fall down seven times, stand up eight’ and ‘learn to live, learn to love’ written in whimsically neat characters.

The screen door let out a slight groan when I opened it and I was greeted by more antiques – a menagerie of owls I nearly squealed over, miniature tea sets, and vases of all colors and shapes. The old hardwood floors creaked as I moved around the front room, and a woman appeared from the back. She had on jean capris and an easy blouse, holding a paintbrush in her hand. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail and wisps were fleeing comfortably from her face. I want to look like that when I’m her age, I thought immediately, smiling and saying hello most certainly in my mountain accent. I felt instantly comfortable in her presence. Within minutes we were talking about her son who did his master’s and worked on his PhD up until his dissertation, and had a difficult time getting a job. I told her I’d be graduating in the spring, hopefully employed soon, and my husband would begin his dissertation in the fall. We moved onto the economy and politics, the crazy weather and the unfairness of the public school system. I left with a terra cotta rooster for my mother’s birthday and, as my husband would say later, ‘a new best friend.’

I took Scott there a week or so later so we could choose a few things for his mother and grandmother for Mothers’ Day.  We moved together through the rooms of the house, touching plates and pictures, picking up miniatures of cardinals and bluebirds. He picked up a white ceramic frog with his wide mouth open, ready to dutifully hold a dish sponge and stand guard the sink.

“Hey, we need one of these,” he said, sincerely. Anyone else would’ve thought this was a joke or sarcasm, a guy trying to make fun of this clearly feminine pastime – ‘antiquing.’ But he was serious. He handed it to me and I carried it around close to my chest.

The owner found us in the back trying to decide between a sunflower votive-holder and a hanging hook that looked like a bird in it’s nest for his mother. We decided on both because they were so affordable.

 “This is my husband,” I said, introducing him to my ‘new best friend.’

“Oh!” she said, “Now that’s something you don’t see everyday. A man out antiquing and enjoying it.”

As she said it, Scott was still comparing the sunflower and bird hook, clearly enjoying this part of the process – deciding between these two items.

“I’ve got a feminine side,” he said in reply.
. . .

I think about what this means, that we’ve all put ourselves in these boxes from the beginning. How it must mean Scott has a special connection to his feminine side because he doesn’t find antiquing similar to watching paint dry. How I get all defensive when we meet a new couple and the wife inevitably asks whether I like to cook. I try to make some excuse like, “I don’t really have time” or “My schedule doesn’t really allow it,” (which are both only partly true) when I’d really like to say, “Hell no, I don’t like to cook.  My husband does though!”

I’m reminded of the time when we left Steak and Shake for an early lunch, heading out to my car. Two old men were talking beside their trucks and they looked at us quizzically, “Why aren’t you making him drive?” they asked.

“Because it’s my car and I can drive just fine,” I replied, probably a little too defensively.

“Well, he should be chauffeuring you around,” they said, chuckling.

I wish I’d said, “It’s none of your business really. I’m out working while he’s home cooking dinner most nights...what do you think of that?” But I didn’t say anything. I just nervously laughed and closed the car door, infuriated.
. . .

“Did you see these owls?” he says, holding one up for me to see.

“Uh...YEAH! I want all of them,” I say, handing over the money to pay for our purchases. He carries the gifts and opens the door for us to walk out to our car. He puts the stuff in the back and gets in on the passenger side.