So over many cups of coffee, my grandmother and I poured over beads, broken brooches, mismatched earrings for hours and hours and hours.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
On a Shawville Sunday Morning/Afternoon/Evening
After I posted yesterday, I decided to go out about the town: specifically to a little shop I've been eyeing up for a while called "June's." It's like a flea market/bazaar/bizarre with it's three aisles only wide enough to fit a slender person sucking in breath, and random items piled to the rafters. But what she specializes in is what made my heart flutter: random vintage jewelry. So as I'm picking through brooches, earrings, necklaces with ugly beads and pretty clasps, I mention to the eponymous shopkeeper that I make jewelry. She kind of lights up and says that she used to have a girl come by and buy pickle jars filled with random bits and bobs because she made jewelry - and in fact she had one waiting for her, but then lost her phone number and it had been months since she'd seen her, wouldn't I like to buy the jar from her? I almost fainted.