Maybe we don’t need more things, just more important things

The more com­plex our world becomes, the more I love sim­ple pleasures.

Decades ago, I came upon a small van­i­ty stuck in a cor­ner of an antique mall in Charlotte, NC. I was attract­ed to its sim­plic­i­ty – clean curves, smooth fin­ish, six dove­tail draw­ers with unpre­ten­tious wood­en pulls. It didn’t cost much. I bought it.

It is still one of my favorite things. On back, a label reveals its prove­nance: “Continental Furniture Company, High Point, North Carolina.” The com­pa­ny was launched in 1902 by Fred Nelson Tate to be mak­ers of “fine grade cham­ber suites, chif­foniers and side­boards,” accord­ing to Joe Exum Brown’s research of High Point fur­ni­ture com­pa­nies. In its hey­day after WWII, the Highpoint area pro­duced 60 per­cent of America’s fur­ni­ture. The indus­try sprang from plen­ti­ful local tim­ber and labor.

I like the fact that my lit­tle piece of fur­ni­ture is part of an impor­tant nation­al lin­eage. Today, we run so fast that we sel­dom con­sid­er the pow­er of craft and her­itage. I vis­it the lit­tle mahogany van­i­ty fre­quent­ly to run my hand along the curves of its top. I exer­cise its draw­ers and think on its his­to­ry and the peo­ple who made it. The thing is a pres­ence that reminds me to slow down and reflect.

The same kind of pres­ence emanates from a live-edge, wal­nut burl cof­fee table in our liv­ing room. The pre­vi­ous own­ers of our house left the large slice of tree in the base­ment. I res­ur­rect­ed it, adding three hair­pin legs. The burl occu­pies the epi­cen­ter of our unwind­ing. Neighbors dropped by this week dur­ing a stroll down our street. We talked about the table’s his­to­ry. Memories flowed. The past was present. Our present togeth­er fold­ed back on Winchester’s past.

Life should be full of such boun­ti­ful encoun­ters and mem­o­ries. I am look­ing at my grandmother’s 1917 diary on the shelf right now. One entry speaks of rolling back the par­lor rug so she and grand­fa­ther can dance to gramo­phone music with neigh­bors. On the same shelves, a jagged piece of karst forged with crys­tal found on the trail dur­ing a stren­u­ous hike at Shining Rock Wilderness, a tiny 1998 paint­ing by San Antonio artist Franco Mondini-Ruiz titled “Woman with a Mysterious Gift,” an herb-filled “motan­ka” doll giv­en to me by a granny in Ukraine, pieces of Catawba Valley Pottery, from kiln open­ings, auc­tions, and art shows. These and oth­er trea­sures are not “things” as much as mem­o­ries. They were not acquired as dec­o­ra­tions. They are acqui­si­tions of desire. Like the mahogany van­i­ty, they speak of time and place, thoughts and feelings.

Now more than ever, it’s impor­tant to hon­or such sim­ple ingre­di­ents of the human con­di­tion, lest our human­i­ty and agency be drowned out by the din of elec­tron­ic squawks and thought­less com­mer­cial cacoph­o­ny. Maybe we don’t need more things, just more impor­tant things and rela­tion­ships that go with them. For such con­nec­tions to hap­pen, we need to stop talk­ing, slow down, lis­ten to our own inner desires and seek out expe­ri­ences and abun­dance dwelling in others.

Good friends brought us a ceram­ic wind chime made by a Brevard, NC, artist when they came for Keeneland’s Spring Meet this year. “Remember us when you hear this,” they said. Now, spring breezes on our bal­cony bring hap­py mem­o­ries of friends and good times togeth­er. The chime’s note is unam­bigu­ous and clear. Its rhythm is relax­ing, con­tem­pla­tive, clos­er to solace than stimulation.

Life’s moments should chime with mem­o­ries and sim­ple plea­sures enjoyed with oth­ers. May our rela­tion­ships always be more real than dec­o­ra­tive, more pos­si­ble than implausible.