Old-Fashioned Things

 In the neighborhood where I grew up, there were church bells. Not just the ordinary bong-bong-bong kind that marked the hour, but bells that played hymns. Real ones. Beautiful, melodic, and strangely uplifting, even to a kid who didn’t yet know the words. I didn’t even know where they came from. Just that they rang out across the trees, over the houses, like a soft invitation to pause and breathe. (If I had to guess now, I’d say they were from the Catholic church down the way—but I could be wrong.) Years later, when I became a regular churchgoer, I’d hear certain hymns and think: "Wait. I know this one." And I’d realize—I’d first heard them from the bells. And I miss them. That simple, comforting sound. The way they made a weekday feel sacred. The way they told you time was passing, but gently. You don’t hear bells like that much anymore. Maybe it’s because neighborhoods got noisier, or churches got smaller. Or maybe it’s because we’ve grown hesitant, afraid that a hymn from...

  There’s a particular kind of thrill that comes with vintage—one that has nothing to do with trend, or profit, or even provenance. It’s the thrill of not knowing. Not fully, anyway. You hold an object in your hands—a hand-painted plate, a faded book, a piece of beadwork with the fringe slightly askew—and you wonder. Who made it? Where has it been? What stories does it carry, silent and stubborn, refusing to be fully told? You make guesses. You notice the details. You trust the weight of the thing, the craftsmanship, the way it feels right even if you can’t name why. You don’t always get the answers. But the guessing? That’s part of the magic. These days, we’re surrounded by tools that promise instant certainty. A scanned photo, a keyword search, a database of marks. Useful, yes. But sometimes the magic lies in the unknowing. In the moment before the facts arrive. In the wonder. Some pieces never reveal their secrets. That’s OK. They don’t need to. They’re still beautiful, ...