I was finishing my morning coffee when my husband came home from getting his hair cut. He said, “Come on, you have to see this great table I found at the town flea market. Good price, too.” For my husband to get excited about an old piece of furniture, it has to be good.
We drove over to the place where they were selling a lot of old things. I hesitate to call them “antiques,” as it’s hard for me to discern what’s an antique and what’s just plain old. I even have trouble with reproductions, like new furniture given that distressed look, the kind that look like they’ve been through several wars.
My mother had bought one of those new dressers made to look old. It cost her quite a bit of money and about the only good thing is that it looks interesting. And yeah, old. But the drawers stick and are warped, parts of each panel are separated, and more than once a drawer almost landed on my toes.
Okay, back to the flea market. We went in and my husband proudly showed me the table he adored.
The table he saw was just okay. Nothing special. My husband was okay with me not liking it. He trusts my judgement. I was ready to leave when it hit me. That “We have to have it” feeling. Something drew me to it. It looked like it had been a storage unit in a store, maybe a general store or clothing store. It has turned legs, a slight bit of etched decoration on the front, an old knob, and it’s engraved “14” and “32” in three areas. Nothing else. And it had been painted all black, but some of the paint has worn off in areas with just bare wood showing.
My husband saw that I loved it, got a great price for it, and it’s now in the eating area of our kitchen. Here’s what I fell in love with:
If anyone can tell me what this was used for, or approximately how old it is, I’d appreciate it. Other than that, we really like it. Even my hard-to-please sons like it too.