Old Soul
I am drawn to old things — transporting myself to their time — not imagining visually, but through emotion. My mother and I used to love exploring abandoned houses. On one foray I came across a small bookcase. I knelt before it and the rough and worn floorboards pressed into my bare knees. I cocked my head sideways and skimmed through the titles. While running my fingers over the spines, one book, in particular, caught my attention. Its green cloth rubbed away in spots, the spine bumped and frayed, yet the gilt lettering on the spine still sparkled.
The book, Select Poems of Tennyson, edited by William J. Rolfe and published in 1890, is one of my prized possessions. It was probably the oldest thing I had ever held up to that point, and it spoke to me in a seemingly subconscious language. Even though I loved books since I was a small child — for their stories or illustrations — this may have been the moment I fell in love with books for the way they feel, smell, and sense of place they can exude. I was, perhaps, only eight or nine years old, and this was the first inclination my mother or I had of me being an old soul. I can remember, when either in junior or high school, joking to people that I was born 150 years too late (something I still do today). Although now writing these words down, it may have been my mother who first came up with the thought.
My parents were not well off. They struggled to pay off the never-ending pile of bills, each stocking of the refrigerator, and every pair of K-mart shoes I tied on my feet. I’m not sure if we were poor, but we certainly could not afford brand-new things. Our house was full of old stuff, bartered for, handed-down, salvaged, or bought on the cheap second-hand. Old things infused my daily world with thoughts of their previous uses, surroundings, or masters. One item in particular that still gives me these feelings today is an antique mirror. This object was “liberated” from a dilapidated old Tennessee farmhouse.
The house was collapsing and being absorbed by the overgrown landscape adjacent to the roadside. I think only my father went inside as I’m sure he would have deemed it too dangerous for my mother to enter, but she was strong-willed enough to ignore the suggestion. After a brief time, one of them stepped out of the ruin carrying a large wood-framed mirror. After wiping some dust and cobwebs off, and stashed behind the seat of our old pickup truck, it was taken home. It has hung in five out of six of my childhood homes, although I cannot recall details of where in each house it was displayed. It hangs now in the bathroom of our 102-year-old house. Its aged, peeling tiger oak veneer and carved decorations clash with an insulting 1990s renovation. The mirror hangs level yet seems not as the rest of the house is slightly askew. I imagine this mirror once hung above a mantle in that farmhouse. What events has it reflected, parties, family arguments, or quiet nights reading by oil light? How many children has it seen grow up, and how many coffins laid before it? These are the things I think about with old possessions. Romantic views of the past haunt me.
