Baby's Silver, All Grown Up

Do you have silver that was given to you as a child sitting on a shelf or packed away, unused?  Baby mugs, bowls, teething rings, and such?

If so, I encourage you to bring it out and use it.  No, not for its original purpose, but for other uses.  I use my childhood silver regularly today.  I use my silver baby mug to drink water in our city bath, where the little mug is a sweet connection to my childhood and won’t break if I drop it.  (Years ago I used it to hold cigarettes during parties when we all still smoked.)  The silver bowl from which I was fed as a baby I now use to serve nuts or dip during cocktails.  And I’ve never ceased using my childhood English nursery-rhyme napkin ring.  As far as a teething ring goes, I needn’t think of an alternate use since I lost mine decades ago.  My mother used her babyhood silver porringer as an ashtray, and she used her silver baby bowl to feed the cat.  There are all sorts of uses for baby silver!

And what if you don’t have any?  Well, then you might consider buying some for yourself to use for more adult purposes.  Silver baby mugs and bowls are easily found on eBay and in antiques group shops, usually very reasonably priced.  So what if they have someone else’s name or initials on them—that didn’t dissuade my grandmother from buying silver for me and my siblings when we were wee little things.

Baby Reggie in the arms of his godfather Henry Firestone

My family lived in Grosse Pointe when my parents were building their family, just a few blocks from my father’s parents.  My grandmother, Granny Darling, believed that each of her grandchildren should have his or her own baby silver, and she saw to it that each of us was provided with it.  And I’m grateful that she did.  Thank you, Granny.

Granny Darling

photo by Bachrach

At the time we lived in G.P., many of the estates that lined Lake St. Clair were being razed and divided; smaller houses, still lovely and commodious, arose on smaller plots of land.  My mother and Granny Darling enjoyed trolling the estate sales, and they also haunted auctions held by DuMouchelles in Detroit.  These were fertile grounds for acquiring all manner of things for the house, including good furniture, china, and linens.  And they were the sources for where my thrifty Granny Darling bought her grandchildren’s silver.

It was never considered odd or unusual that the silver we had as children was engraved with other people’s names or initials.  Besides, there was plenty of silver on hand that had our own family’s names or initials on it that had been handed down from previous generations (my mother was the only daughter of an only daughter of an only daughter, each of whom was given full services when married).  I often wondered as a child, “Who were these people whose silver I used?”  It was amusing to make up stories about the people whose names appeared on my childhood silver, and to give them imagined personalities.

Recently I took my baby mug and bowl to a silversmith and had the interiors re-gilt, as most of the gold had worn off over the years.  I think they really look quite spiffy now, and taking care of them as I have adds to the pleasure I find while using them today, as does knowing that future babies—and wise adults—will likely someday use them, too.

Tell me, do you still use your baby silver?

All color photographs by Boy Fenwick

Maids Should Wear Uniforms

I believe that employed domestics, whether maids or manservants, should wear uniforms. What exactly constitutes the uniform can be decided between employer and employee, but I think it is entirely reasonable when employing someone in your house that you require them to wear clothing that conforms to what you believe is appropriate for the position and environment.  In my house, that means a uniform.

photo courtesy of http://www.tipsuniforms.com/

In today’s society, where all manner of structures have broken down, many people who employ domestics either don’t know that they can require them to wear a uniform or think asking them to do so is hopelessly old-fashioned and stuffy, or even humiliating to the domestic forced to wear such a symbol of oppressive servitude.  Not I.

Employment as a domestic is, I believe, an honorable profession.  Many people in professions in this country are proud to wear the uniforms of their field, such as police, military, medicine, etc.  In my field, investment banking, I too wear a uniform, mostly suit and tie, and I’m expected to conform to my employer’s requirements to do so as a condition of employment.  To that end I believe it is reasonable that I, as well, require our housekeeper to wear a uniform.

I grew up in a household where the domestics (maids, actually) were required to wear uniforms, and it seemed perfectly natural that they did so.  When it came time in my life that I was on my own and could afford to employ a domestic to clean my apartment, uniforms weren’t part of the deal since the housekeepers that rotated through my place only came once every other week or so.  In other words, they were independent contractors in a position to set their own conditions of service employment.

Over time, though, I was able to employ someone on a more regular basis, at least a couple of days a week, and at times would find myself at home during the day with housekeepers whose sartorial choices were at best dubious and at times appalling.

We once employed a woman at Darlington House named Luanne who was a crackerjack housekeeper but who came to work dressed like someone you’d expect to see in the bleachers at a NASCAR race.  Not that I’ve ever been to a NASCAR race, but I have a pretty good idea of the type I’m thinking about from what little I’ve seen of them on television or the covers of magazines in convenience stores.  In any event, Luanne would show up at our house wearing Timberland boots; skin-tight, cut-off jean hot-pants; and a "wife-beater" or a tube top sufficiently cropped to reveal the Harley-Davidson "tramp stamp" tattoo on her lower back.  I’m not exaggerating.  Plus she had a mean bleach-job and spent way too much time at the tanning salon.  The thing is, she was a really marvelous housekeeper and had what appeared to be limitless energy.  So we put up with her rig, at least for a while.

Logo courtesy of Harley-Davidson

Ultimately, though, it became too much for me to bear, and while I couldn’t do anything about the bleached hair or the fake tan, I was determined to do something about the clothes.  Luanne was perennially short of cash and routinely requested that we provide her with advances on her pay, or loans so she could make ends meet.  To reward her for her good work over the years we decided to give her a lump sum of money (to cover her pressing bills) and also to provide her with more employment, including weekends, when we would be at home.  As a pre-condition, though, I took her to a local clothing store and bought her khakis and a polo shirt for her to wear for daily chores when we were there and a black skirt and white button-down shirt to wear when we'd have guests.  Unfortunately, we didn’t get to see much of Luanne in her new uniforms because shortly thereafter we had to fire her and change the locks, as we learned that she had become a meth addict.  In retrospect it certainly explained her limitless energy and ever-present need for more cash.

So when we hired our current housekeeper, Karyn, a condition of her employment was that she had to wear a uniform when working at Darlington House.  She arrives at Darlington wearing what she chooses and then changes into the clothes that we provide.  This includes two uniforms: one of basic khakis and a polo shirt plus bib apron for daily wear during the week, whether or not we're there, and the other a classic maid’s uniform of grey dress with white cuffs and apron for use when we are there on weekends.  At first she was a bit “iffy” about wearing the maid's dress and apron, but she says she has come around and actually enjoys wearing it.

Photo courtesy of http://www.llbean.com/

photo courtsey of http://www.landsend.com/

photo courtsey of http://www.apron.com/

I like having Karyn wear a uniform when she’s working at Darlington.  Having her do so means that I won’t find myself unpleasantly confronted by what I might consider to be her unfortunate or inappropriate clothing choices if I happen to be at home when she is there.  It also means that she isn't wearing out or soiling her own clothes when working for us at Darlington.  And it clearly identifies her as an employee rather than the “lady of the house” when deliverymen or strangers or guests come to our door.  In the end, I know what to expect when I see or spend time in the house with Karyn, and so does she.

Do your maids wear uniforms?

Stamford Sunday Pseudo-Shopping

Boy and I decided to spend this past weekend in the city, enjoying a respite from Darlington House.  January can be grim in the Hudson River Valley, frozen and lifeless, whereas Manhattan is brimming with activity and is rather fun to spend time in, particularly now that the holiday-season tourists have gone.  We spent Saturday going to a museum (The New York Historical Society), shopping (Tribeca antiques shops and Bergdorf Goodman Men), having lunch out (L'Absinthe), and spending the evening happily tucked away in our apartment catching up on recorded television shows and eating Chinese takeout.

We woke Sunday morning with the day yawning ahead of us and decided that a road trip to Stamford was in order to check out the town's numerous antiques centers, both for Boy's clients and ourselves.  So we fired up the jalopy and headed over to Connecticut where we spent the day trolling though the shops.

Our first stop in Stamford was the Antique and Artisan Center where I was surprised to see that the pair of diminutive Louis XV-style chairs with needlepoint covers that I had admired when we were last there (see "Our Black Friday" post, dated December 10th) were still available.  Louis Bofferding, where are you?  After a thorough search through all of the booths we came away with only one thing for ourselves, a small horn mounted on an acrylic base that is now sitting on a side table in our city living room, shown in the picture above.

While we were at the Antique and Artisan Center we became obsessed with diminutive chairs, after coming across the little Louis XV ones, and spent the rest of the day snapping pictures of examples that we found in the various antiques centers.  The thing is, we weren't shopping for little chairs at all, it's just that once we focused on them we then became fixated on them, and therefore were on the lookout for them for the rest of the day.  That frequently happens when we are out and about in antiques stores or group shops: we will latch on to something that strikes our eye and then start pseudo-shopping for it, or its category. That's what we were doing with little chairs on Sunday afternoon.  We had no interest in buying small chairs on our trip, we were only pseudo-shopping for them. 

One of my favorite pseudo-shopping categories is clown paintings, which I frequently come across in group shops.  I have no intention of ever owning a clown painting, and consider them to be rather creepy in a John Wayne Gacy sort of way, but I am always on a semi-lookout for them whenever I'm trolling through an antiques mall or group shop.  I almost always find one or two examples to add to my pseudo collection.

Anyway, getting back to Stamford, here's a photo spread of all of the little chairs we came across while pseudo-shopping for them during the afternoon:

These 1950s 3/5 scale needle-pointed chairs were real charmers!

Another pair of charming diminutive Louis XV chairs

Two diminutive Directoire chairs; I particularly like the slipper chair

 

A small Gustavian-style chair and an even smaller Louis XVI-style chair

A little bit o' Venice

 

Two little early American chairs -- plain and simple -- potty on the right

Two Bertoia children's-sized chairs

We didn't just have our eyes open for diminutive chairs, however, as we made our rounds in Stamford.  I came across a pair of Regency-style tables that I admired, well, actually lusted after. I would have been more than happy to make room them for in our city apartment if we had space for them.  With some gilding applied to their brass these tables could well find themselves somewhere like Mallett, or Clarence House for that matter (not the fabric showroom, the Prince of Wales' London residence).

Our final stop was Hiden Galleries, where I was surprised to see the Harlequin lamp that I wrote about back in December was still unsold.  I suppose that it takes a special person to see the charms of this lamp, or at least have the type of house or decor that could accommodate such a lamp.  Isn't there anyone in Palm Beach who would like to bring this home? 

It was at Hiden that Boy and I found the other two objects that we actually bought during our trip.  And both of them are very humble indeed.  Following his success at last weekend's Pier Show, Boy found another vintage earthenware dog bowl for Pompey.  And I found a small painted metal fire bucket, probably from the 1940s-50s that I think will be perfect hanging in our small barn at Darlington. 

 

Boy did find a number of big-ticket possibilities for clients during our visit to Stamford, so it really was a useful excursion for us.  But we came home with only three small-ticket items for ourselves, which is just fine with me.

Here's a question: do you also pseudo-shop when you are in antiques stores?

All photos by Boy Fenwick

Dinner at L'Absinthe

New York has always had a love affair with French food and French restaurants, and that’s understandable since France produces some of the most wonderful cooking known to mankind. While the city’s top restaurants are no longer exclusively French, that country’s cooking continues to hold a solid place in New York’s restaurant scene, from the ranks of the most quotidian to those of the most rarified. Food and restaurant fads may come and go, but New York will always lay a welcome mat for the cuisine de France.  Boy and I eat French food so often that we've come up with this little joke: Q: "Do you like ethnic food?" A: "Of couse I do. I adore French cooking!"

L'Absinthe's postcard

At the upper end of the “better” French restaurants in Manhattan sits L’Absinthe, ranking well above the neighborhood bistros that litter the city, and below the vaunted chambers of the likes of Le Bernadin or La Grenouille. L’Absinthe is an haute Bourgeoisie establishment whose well-heeled clientele is largely drawn from the surrounding Upper East Side neighborhoods. Very 16th arrondissement. Not surprisingly L’Absinthe tends to be somewhat dressy for dinner during colder months, when many of the men dining there arrive wearing sport jackets (and older men often wear ties) and ladies arrive dressed, wearing jewelry. This gets notched up a few degrees when the international antiques and art shows are held at the nearby Park Avenue Armory, whose well-dressed out-of-town patrons and dealers also flock to L'Absinthe's elegant and comfortable rooms.

Jean-Michel Bergougnoux is a well-known flirt

L’Absinthe is one of my favorite restaurants in New York, and Boy and I have been regulars there since it opened over a decade ago. We are on a first name basis with its chef/owner, Jean-Michel Bergougnoux, formerly of Le Regence and Lutece, among other storied restaurants, as well as most of the staff. We always sit at the same banquette whenever we dine there, which is at least once every several weeks and sometimes more frequently. I have eaten at L’Absinthe so often over the years that I almost don’t need to look at the menu, whatever the season. And they know exactly how I like my martini: Beefeater gin, up, with olives, very cold, and very dry.

On arriving at L’Absinthe the first thing that strikes one is how authentically Parisian the restaurant appears. Decorated in high Belle Époque style, its walls are covered with large mirrors and framed cartes and posters, and the room is beautifully lighted by gorgeous, flowery Art Nouveau chandeliers and wall sconces. There are many banquettes to choose from, and it is strictly a white tablecloth establishment. Waiters are suitably dressed in traditional black and white with long white aprons tied around their waists. L’Absinthe looks sufficiently authentic that the producers of The Devil Wears Prada used it as a location for two of the film’s scenes that take place in Paris.

Like many of the brasseries I’ve eaten at in Paris, though, L’Absinthe is not entirely immune to decorating faux pas every now and then, such as a picture here and there in somewhat dubious taste or a less-than perfect arrangement of flowers. However, that doesn’t bother me a whit since I think it actually makes it seem more authentically French than some of the too-perfect imitations I’ve dined at elsewhere in Manhattan.

But where L’Absinthe truly excels is in the kitchen, which under the careful oversight of Monsieur Bergougnoux produces a bounty of delicious, perfectly cooked and beautifully presented Parisian favorites, eliciting “oohs” and “ahs” of pleasure from delighted diners.

Upon being seated for dinner every table is delivered a plate of hot gougeres to tease the palate while the lucky patrons drink aperitifs and study the menu. L’Absinthe excels in serving shellfish, and Boy and I almost always start out with a plate of briny, perfectly shucked oysters flown in from the East and West coasts. I have to force myself not to always order the restaurant’s excellent Niman Ranch steak frites or justifiably renowned roasted free-range chicken, since the menu has so many other delicious options to choose from, including a divine poached chicken in black truffle broth that is perfect for when one is counting calories. But who’s counting calories at L’Absinthe? Particularly when it is thought to serve one of the best apple tarts in town, and where the profiteroles are some of the most heavenly. Don’t forget to ask for a small dish of their velvety after-dinner chocolate bonbons to finish off your meal.

L'Absinthe's prix fixe luncheon menu

In addition to being a wonderful place to eat dinner, L’Absinthe is also a delightful place to have a weekday’s lunch, and on weekends they throw a sumptuous brunch, crowned with the ceremonial wheeling around of a cart loaded with such classic French desserts as Baba au Rhum and Ile Flottante.

L’Absinthe is a marvelous place to go when meeting up with or entertaining friends. My enchanting eldest sister, Camilla (known as “Sister”), was in town last weekend during Antiques Week visiting her dear friend Davinia, and Boy and I took the two of them to dinner at L’Absinthe to celebrate. The place was jam packed with patrons, and Jose (the maitre d') told us they had to turn away over 100 reservations that night, typical for when the big antiques shows are in town. We felt lucky indeed to slide into our customary banquette and quickly ordered a round of Manhattans (the ladies) and martinis (the men).  We started out sharing two dozen oysters, and my three companions tucked into the restaurant's marvelous pot au feu while I devoured the excellent beef and lamb burger (L'Absinthe serves one of the tastiest burgers in town) with frites. We topped off our meal with souffles for dessert.  Divine.  It was a delight to see Sister and be able to introduce her and Davinia to one of our favorite restaurants in New York, and we all had a lovely time.

And yes, they do serve Absinthe, the allegedly wicked spirit for which the restaurant is named. I’ve tried it several times there with little effect, but I understand that one must drink rather a lot of it to feel much of anything. All the more reason to go back . . .

L’Absinthe

227 East 67th Street

New York, New York 10065

(212) 794-4950
http://www.labsinthe.com/

How Reggie Got His Name

I am the fourth of four children, and I come from a family where my parents were not all that involved in the more mundane, day-to-day responsibilities that raising children requires. Nor were they expected to be since it was assumed that there would be others there to take care of such responsibilities for them. Their parents hadn't been their primary caregivers, why should they be ours? Besides, my mother had several houses to run and was, frankly, more interested in reading novels and smoking cigarettes in her spare time than attending to the more tedious demands of her children. Fortunately she was able to surrender such responsibilities to others better equipped to do so, in particular a woman who came into our household back when we still lived in Grosse Pointe.

Regina lived with my family for many years, as her husband was a porter with the railroad and spent most of his time traveling the rails, away from home. She attended to my three siblings, who preceded me, a role that my parents were so grateful for that by the time I came around they named me Reginald, after her, and also named her as my godmother. Regina cared for me, she dressed and fed me, and she loved me in a way that blurred the line between caregiver and mother. I loved her in return with the devotion and intensity of a dependant child. I have more vivid memories of her as a very young child than I do of my own mother.

Regina left my parents' employment when I was five years old, when my father took a job in Washington, D.C., and we moved away. Her husband received a modest stipend from the railroad and they retired to a small house in the country. My family’s contact with Regina became increasingly irregular and ultimately was limited to the exchange of Christmas cards, before trailing off altogether. Years later I unsuccessfully tried to find her, or to find what became of her.

Over time I learned that the source of my name was rather unusual in the circles I found myself, and I regret to say that I became increasingly ambivalent of having been named after a domestic, instead of someone more expected, such as an ancestor. Up into my teens people would ask me how it was I was named Reginald, which was such an odd name in the United States at the time, and I would mumble that it was a “family” name or similar, embarrassed that I had in fact been named after a servant employed by my family, no matter how well loved. How often I wished that I had been named instead a normal name such as “Chris” or “Mark” or “John,” and after an uncle or a forebearer. But no, “Reginald” or “Reggie” was the name I bore. In addition it was particularly irksome that the only other Reggie I and my little friends knew of at the time was the black-haired nemesis of the comic book character Archie.

Once I entered my twenties, though, I came to appreciate that Reginald was a rather interesting name, and that to have been named after the woman who loved me as Regina did was something worthy of being proud of. When asked I began, at first somewhat tentatively, to tell people the story of how I came to be named Reginald. Over time I started to volunteer such information, unprompted, as a matter of pride and also because it’s not your typical story.

Almost everyone I tell these days how I came to be named Reginald responds favorably--often after a slight double take--with many saying it was swell (or something to that effect) that my parents were so “modern” to have chosen to name me after Regina when they did. I think it was swell, too. 

Here's to you, Regina.


Photos courtesy of the Detroit Free Press

Reggie's Rooms: Canon Valpy's Drawing-Room

From time to time I shall post about rooms that I have come across over the years that I find notable or inspiring, for one reason or another. These are rooms that I come back to again and again, and where there is something about them that I find particularly pleasing. Often they trigger a visceral reaction in me--an “I want that!” response. In most cases these are interiors that I would be delighted to call home, either by transporting myself back to the period when they were depicted, or today by the most subtle introduction of such modern conveniences as electric lighting or central heating.

 Canon Valpy drawing-room, 3 The Close, Winchester

Painted by B. O. Corfe, c. 1900

Victoria and Albert Museum, London

I begin the series with a watercolor of the drawing-room at 3 The Close, Winchester, that belonged to Canon Valpy, a well-to-do member of the Chapter of Winchester Cathedral. Painted in 1900, this is a room where the heavy clutter one associates with High-Victoriana has largely been dispensed with, and it is furnished in an eclectic, comfortable manner presaging the “English Country House” look that Nancy Lancaster and her circle perfected a generation or two later. One sees in Canon Valpy’s drawing-room a way of arranging and decorating an interior that surely informed, if not inspired, Mrs. Lancaster’s subsequent vision.

What is it about this room that I find so compelling?

• The proportions are pleasing. The architecture is solidly Georgian in appearance, undoubtedly built in the 18th-century, symmetrically arranged around a lovely fireplace, with large windows, classical moldings, and a chair-rail.
• It is comfortably-furnished with a handsome collection of upholstered and incidental furnishings. The decoration is clearly inspired by the English 18th-century, but not slavishly so as it is augmented with examples from other periods and countries, including France and Morocco.
• There is a lot to interest one’s eye: the walls are hung with stacks of gilt-framed prints and paintings, and the tables are covered with collections of china and objects of interest; there are flowers and green plants about.
• It is redolent of time spent in scholarly, musical, and social pursuits: there are numerous stacks of books (this is clearly the room of people who enjoy reading), and a piano stands at the ready, either for one’s own enjoyment or others. The furniture can be easily moved to promote intimate conversation or for a party.
• It is softened by the presence of attractive textiles. The upholstered seating is uniformly slipcovered with the same pretty chintz, and the floor is covered with a beautiful oriental carpet. The windows are generously hung with handsome curtains. I find the simplicity of the slipcovers and curtains pleasing, too. No dress-makers’ tassels or ribbons in sight and no swags or jabots.
• It doesn’t look overtly-decorated, and is obviously not the work of one of the firms that delivered so many “lock-stock-and-barrel” interiors seen in many English country houses of the period. Although thoroughly furnished by today’s standards, at the time it was painted prevailing taste would have considered this to be understated.

While clearly a room of its time and place, I find Canon Valpy’s drawing-room to be particularly pleasing. It is comfortable, attractive, and – with the addition of a few table lamps – a room that I would be delighted to live in today.

Canon Valpy’s drawing room, along with many other lovely interiors, appears in Victorians At Home by Susan Lasdun, published by Viking Press in 1981

Antiques Week Cont'd: Our Pier Show Cargo

Today (Sunday) marks the official end of Antiques Week here in New York City, with all of the shows closing except the Winter Antiques Show, which continues through the 31st. Between the two of us, Boy and I hit every show and preview held during the week. Overall we thought the top two shows, the Winter Show and the American Antiques Show, were slightly less sumptuous than in years past.  Not a whole lot, but just slightly so. While there were still plenty of offerings at these two top shows with jaw-dropping prices, I would say that the prices posted weren't so extraordinarily stratospheric this year as to defy comprehension altogether (with some notable exceptions). Also, there were more offerings at these shows at the lower end of the pricing spectrum vs. previous years.  Many of the dealers at the Winter Show and the American Antiques Show informed us without any prompting that they were willing to negotiate prices, and several volunteered without our asking that they would be happy to arrange terms and payment schedules.  We occasionally hear this from dealers we've bought from in the past, but we heard this from several dealers at both shows from whom we've never bought anything. There was, I believe, hunger in the aisles.

Boy took clients to the Winter Show, the (Other) Armory Show, and the Pier Show, and was successful in finding purchases for them at each of these shows.  We wound up buying things for ourselves at only two of the shows, the New York Ceramics Fair and the Pier Show.  We came very close to buying a painting at the Winter Show, but decided not to after debating it over a boozy dinner. I wonder, though, will I recall it in the future as one of the ones that got away?

Yesterday morning Boy and I got up bright and early and drove over to Pier 92 on the Hudson River where we met up with one of his associates and a current client to attend the first day of the Americana & Antiques Show at the Pier. We wanted to get there before it opened so that we could shop before it got picked over, which happens within an hour or two.  As I suspected, I recognized any number of people standing in line waiting to get in as dealers from the other more expensive shows.  There were also the usual cast of characters that one sees and comes to recognize. 

Once the gate opened I peeled off from Boy and his client to see what I could find on my own, since we had differing agendas.  We each did the show twice: the first time was a quick run through of the 200 dealers, searching for specific items or categories, and the second time was at a more studied pace, examining the offerings more closely.  We would compare notes when we ran into each other, and even took a quick water break and sat down at one point, but we spent the better part of the three hours we were there intensely focused on taking in everything the show had to offer.

I was happy to see that the quality of the dealers and their offerings was better at the Pier Show than I had expected, and Stella Management is to be commended for that.  There was little true junk on display, and most of the booths yielded up one or more offerings that I would be delighted to take home.  Prices were very reasonable, everything was negotiable, and the dealers were intent on moving the merchandise.

So here's what Boy and I found:

In addition to collecting early 19th-century English Staffordshire pearlware figures, Boy and I also collect somewhat later Staffordshire figures, focusing on ones that have only a modest amount of decoration on them.  I believe this figure is likely Prince Albert, and loosely based on the Winterhalter portrait of 1842.

Boy spotted this green feather-edge platter from around 1800 shortly after entering the Pier to add to his ever-expanding stash of green feather-edge creamware.  He then found six decorated creamware soup plates from the 1790s, from the same dealer who sold me a set of dinner plates and serving platters from the same service at a different show last year.

I couldn't resist buying this Yale banner and also a Vassar pennant to pin up in the small barn we use as a glorified gardening shed at Darlington. The Yale one, which the dealer said dates from the 1940-50s, says "WHEN BETTER WOMEN ARE MADE YALE MEN WILL MAKE THEM".  I'm not exactly sure what it means, but I suspect that if I were to hang it in my office at the Investment Bank I could well find myself remanded to Human Resources.

Boy and I have been collecting sandpaper pictures for as long as we've owned Darlington and are always on the lookout for interesting examples.  Boy found this charming one (the larger of the two pictures shown here) at one of our favorite dealers of sandpapers.

Here's a close up of the smaller picture, a mourning piece dated 1847 and made with human hair with this inscription on the tombstone at the head of a recently filled grave: "Triste souvenir de notre enfant!"

I've been watching for old silver frames to upgrade the ones I have for photographs of family and friends (see "Our Black Friday" December 10th posting).  I found this little velvet-backed double frame and got it for only $50, which is a deal, since the ones I come across like this usually run $150-200.  Furthermore, the velvet backing is in perfect condition, which is rarely the case.

Just as we were leaving the show, Boy grabbed these two useful finds.  The first is a vintage earthenware dog bowl for Pompey, and the second is a cast-iron turtle to add to our collection of paperweights for the screened porch.  I'll be doing a posting on our growing collection of porchiana when the weather warms up later this year.

So that wraps up my overview of what we bought at this year's Antiques Week.  We enjoyed ourselves immensely at the shows and we are satisfied with what we found.  I hope you like our cargo, too.


All photos by Boy Fenwick