Last Friday, Laure Ferlita and I rose before the crack of dawn to trek out to Mount Dora, FL, where Renninger’s was hosting an “Antique and Collectors Extravaganza.” This popular 3-day event attracts vendors from all over the country, and many thousands of visitors. We wanted to be there when it opened so we could cover as much ground as possible. 

It was a gray and drizzly day, which kept a few of the more casual buyers away early. By late morning, the sun had come out and by the end of the day, we were glad of the trees shading many of the booths. (Florida may not have traditional seasons, but we like to pack as many weather changes into one day as we can.)

Laure is an experienced Renninger visitor, but it was my first time. I was astonished by the sheer volume of antiques and collectibles—including antique and vintage furniture, art, jewelry, collectible glass, porcelain, sterling silver, architectural pieces and much more. We wandered the aisles, admiring, questioning the wisdom of, laughing, drinking in the sights and sounds, generally filling the inspiration well with a complete change of pace from our usual routine. (We also ate mini donuts—they weren’t beignets, but still pretty tasty! We had to keep our strength up, after all.)

My only purchases were three of these spools:

…and a copy of A.A. Milne’s The House at Pooh Corner. However, I was mightily tempted by some Beatrix Potter figurines (which I unfortunately did not get a picture of) and hope one day to start a little collection of them.

I did collect a few things that were not things that day, including:

Altogether, a most satisfactory field trip.

At the beginning of the famous novel, "Remembrance of Things Past," the mere taste of a biscuit started Marcel Proust on a seven-volume remembrance. Here a bulldozer turns up an old doorknob, and look what happens in Shirley Buettner's imagination. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

Discovered 

While clearing the west

quarter for more cropland,

the Cat quarried

a porcelain doorknob

oystered in earth,

grained and crazed

like an historic egg,

with a screwless stem of

rusted and pitted iron.

I turn its cold white roundness

with my palm and

open the oak door

fitted with oval glass,

fretted with wood ivy,

and call my frontier neighbor.

Her voice comes distant but

clear, scolding children

in overalls

and highbutton shoes.

A bucket of fresh eggs and

a clutch of rhubarb rest

on her daisied oil-cloth.

She knew I would knock someday,

wanting in.