Junk Love: The Hutch

Have you ever fallen in love? Instant, gut-searing, I-have-to-have-you-or-I'll-die love? We have, on many occasions, fallen victim to this condition. Usually, it involves vintage cocktail items or pinups. But once upon a time...it was a gigantic piece of furniture.

We were in the Wilmington, NC area for vacation. The week had been spent mostly in our pajamas in a beach house, watching movies and putting together puzzles. It was a time of relaxation, where our mental reset buttons would be gently pushed. We might venture into town for a nice meal or a stroll around the local antique shops (otherwise we would dry up and die). One night, we drove to the beach to get our toes wet under a wide expanse of Carolina stars. The next day, we journeyed into the big city to have lunch with someone we know there. And afterwards, as we sat in the car waiting for the AC to catch up, one of us said, "I wonder if there's a thrift store on the way back to the house?"

Indeed, there was. And within ten seconds of walking through the door, I was shoving people aside as I rushed to greet my future: a mid-century hutch by Young Manufacturing Co. Glass panels on the sides, glass shelves, and it lights up. At $225, it was pricey for a thrift store find, but a bargain for such a large piece. As I spotted another customer strolling toward it with a contemplative gleam, I considered licking the doors to stake my claim. Luckily, there are TWO Blackbird girls--one to find a sales associate, and one to body-check anybody stupid enough to tread on our turf.

Hutch in its native habitat

Lusty excitement aside, we are also practical gals, so my first action was to get the tape measure from the car. The hutch is two pieces, incredibly heavy, and too big for both parts to fit in the car simultaneously. But, considered individually, each piece would fit. We were an hour from the beach house, but decided it was worth it to make two trips. I gleefully paid for the hutch. And then Carl happened.

Carl is the guy in charge of moving things. And Carl is the sort of fellow who will laugh in a woman's face and tell her how stupid she is. I learned this the hard way. 

I want to take the top half first I told him. It will slide in at an angle, and I have blankets to cushion (because you have to travel with blankets for this exact purpose). He shook his head and laughed and condescendingly informed me that the piece was too big. The top is 48 inches I said. I have 52 inches of clearance in the car. Carl snorted and asked where from my body I happened to pull those numbers. I held up my tape measure, and he snatched it from my hand. I watched through the window as Carl measured my hutch top, watched him shake his head when he realized that it was, indeed, 48 inches high. And then he came outside and tossed the tape measure at me. He spat on the asphalt in front of my toes, and told me that he didn't care what size it was. Nobody was putting that piece in my car. Then he instructed all of his staff not to help us. It was too heavy for two Blackbird girls to handle, and so we were stuck.

From here we entered a Dark Time, during which we called everyone we knew, who called people, who called people, and eventually, we were able to get someone with a truck to come help us. Half of the hutch went in the truck, and the other half went into my car. Sounds like a sweet ending to the story, right? I may have neglected to mention the fact that I didn't technically have room for this piece of furniture at home. Indeed, there was the not-so-small matter of a piano in the exact spot where the hutch would have to live.

The bottom half of the piece, which I affectionately referred to as Hutch Butt, lived in my SUV for over two months. If I got groceries, I would slide open the doors and lower bags into the Hutch Butt. If I slammed on the brakes, it would nudge the back of my seat like a friendly high-five. While Hutch Butt camped in my car, and Hutch Top lived in somebody's garage, I tried to get rid of the piano. Not surprisingly, those tend to be really hard to re-release into the wild. Eventually, I figured out a way to fit the hutch into my house WITHOUT getting rid of the piano--or anything else!

Hutch Butt grows accustomed to its new habitat

All it took was twelve hours of sweaty labor, moving four other pieces of furniture and dozens of associated tchotchkes and pieces of wall art, but finally, there was a space for Hutch Butt. The delivery of Hutch Top was a joyous event, and there was rejoicing in the streets (except not really, because there is no air conditioning out there). Finally, finally, finally--the hutch was in my house, ready to be filled with pottery and other assorted items. The moral of this story? Love is hard work, but a girl would do almost anything for decent storage.

Hutch Butt and Hutch Top compare stories from their time apart

Junk Love Monday: Falling Off The Wagon

Ever since we were forced to downsize our studio space, which resulted in a mountainous obstacle course of boxes, totes, and piles of junk at the new place, the Blackbird girls have been trying not to buy new junk. We really need to finish sorting and organizing the stuff that we already have. Whenever something actually sells on Etsy, we spend an hour or so unstacking and digging through totes trying to find it so that we can pack and ship it. This may also involve me crawling beneath or between furniture, getting my hair caught on something in the dark depths, spending five minutes untangling myself, and then having the other Blackbird pull me out by my ankles. Then we end up finding the item wrapped in a shirt that was stuffed into an ice bucket "to keep it safe." So, an unofficial moratorium has been in place on the junk buying.

We've both been feeling it. Withdrawal. The depression. The fatigue. The irritability. This certainly isn't helped by working in an antique store. But we've been pretty good. Until last Thursday.

I ran errands while she was doing shop maintenance on Etsy. I came back, trying to shrug off a bad mood, trying even harder to figure out something to keep me busy for the rest of the day. Two minutes after I walked in the door, she looked at me and said, "Can we go to a thrift store? Please? I think I'm going crazy." I said yes and promptly went back to the car, feeling lighter than I had in days (possibly weeks).

We were just going to the Salvation Army. It's close by, and has great potential for a 49 cent treasure. We started the usual route, and somewhere between the Murder She Wrote board game and the vintage chair and ottoman, we both fell off the wagon. Hard.

As we wrestled the chair into the car, she said, "I feel better. We can go home now, if you want." But, I could tell she didn't mean it. So, I suggested that it would make sense to swing by the Goodwill on the way home. It isn't actually on the way, directionally speaking, but with traffic and all, it made better sense to turn right and drive a mile and a half so that we could turn around in the Goodwill parking lot in order to go home. (It makes sense!)

It would have ended there, if not for the 1960s Pendleton and the silver shoes, both found during our last scan on the way to the register. If not for those, we would have gone home. But when I saw those silver shoes, my heart started pounding. The blood rushed in my ears. Endorphins flooded my system, and I felt good. And so, on the way home, we drove fifteen miles to another town in order to browse another Goodwill. And the buzz continued....

All stores close eventually, so we had to actually go home after that. And we were both in really good moods. The next day, I had an appointment in another city, and casually asked if she wanted to ride with me. You know. To keep me company (because who doesn't like to sit in the car while somebody is conducting other business for an hour?). It is total coincidence that my appointment was fifteen seconds from a Goodwill. Total coincidence. And then, because we had already used the gas to get there, we just had to make the rounds to (*ahem) four more thrift stores.

But who could blame us? We found Veras! Vintage clothes! Linens! A lamp! You can't leave that stuff behind, and you never know what's lurking on that bottom shelf in the next dim thrift store (and thrift stores are getting dimmer and dimmer these days). I feel a rush just thinking about it. My bank account, on the other hand, has taken a hit. And, we have to figure out where to put it all. Maybe in that ice bucket we just recently cleaned out....