Vintage Monday, or, An Intro to Some of My Obsessions

People tell me I’m “unique.” Sometimes they mean it in the “oh wow, you really are strange, I’m crossing my fingers that you don’t have a weapon in your purse” way. Sometimes they really mean unique, as in individual, either as a compliment or merely an unfortunate yet apt descriptor. Some of what makes me unique is attributed my sense of humor, my limited social skills and a panache for being blunt. Some is related to my interests and particular tastes. Some of these interests include museums, science fiction, baking, and old things.

Old things are the inspiration for my Monday column. I need a name. Should we go for something purely descriptive or the more classic alliteration? What do you think? Vintage Monday? Musty Monday? Things with which I am somewhat obsessed and which are also old, and now let me share with you my reasons for loving these things?

Let me know, I’m all ears.

Some of the vintage/old/creepy things that I enjoy include:

Screwball Comedies from the 30s and 40s. The Thin Man series is brilliant (almost anything with William Powell is brilliant- have you SEEN My Man Godfrey?!?). So is anything with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, particularly Bringing Up Baby – heck, nearly everything with Cary Grant is enjoyable. Also, most things with Jimmy Stewart, when he’s being funny.

I love old jazz. Old. As in still a bit more ragtime than jazz, awesome musicians with equally awesome names like Jelly Roll Morton, and the knowledge that many early jazz musicians felt that marijuana helped them let go and flow with the music and create better improvisation, and how that random tidbit ALONE makes me giggle at anyone who has ever told me that jazz is stuffy.

Also, rockabilly. I know nothing about rockabilly except that I like the old stuff and it makes me want to dance.

Okay, I led with the slightly more cool old stuff. Here comes the less cool old stuff.

Graveyards and very old tombstones. A graveyard brings out the Anne of Green Gables in me. I love to wander through graveyards and read epitaphs and imagine what the person looked like, what they liked to do, who they loved, and how they died. This is probably the same reason I love…

…old snapshots and postcards. Like my esteemed colleague, I adore photography. But that’s (for the most part) a horse of a different color – and possibly a different column. Old photos and postcards both offer a glimpse into someone else’s life. Taken by an amateur, usually without any artistic merit or interesting style, casual portraits and candid snaps delight me with their potential to tell a story, raise historical questions, or simply entertain.

Finally, I’m the only person I know, and, I suspect, the only person under the age of 40, with a collection of vintage handkerchiefs. And gloves. Some people may have a hankie that belonged to Great-Grandma Felicia tucked away in a drawer, or a pair of gloves left over from a high school dance (or, if you’re of the museological persuasion, a pair of white gloves for artifact handling), but somehow I ended up with stacks and stacks of used hankies and gloves.

So LORD knows if anyone wants to read about anything in this vein, but my next post is going to try to tackle the hankie issue in the style of a persuasion speech. With an eco-angle (I hate the term green. Maybe someday I’ll write about why). That should be interesting, right?


3 thoughts on “Vintage Monday, or, An Intro to Some of My Obsessions

  1. Amy, I’m on my way to work in casual carpool and I almost giggled uncontrollably in front of people I don’t know (hence, casual). Come visit again, there is an amazing graveyard near me.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s