May 19, 2015 § 1 Comment
My mom and I used to plan weekends together, or just days where we’d do whatever we wanted together; we called them ‘girly days’. We’ve been to Louisiana and Franklin, TN to see plantations when I was in high school. We took a cooking class in Birmingham together. We spent a blissful few days in Asheville, touring the grand Biltmore estate after I graduated from college. We ventured to New York for my birthday one year to see a Jane Austen exhibit (me) and go to the top of the Empire State Building (mom…well, ok, me too). But, it’d been quite awhile since our last all-girls’ hangout fest.
Enter the Scott Antique Market. I’d heard of this place from friends and seen advertisements before. Mom had just recently been talking to a doctor at her work about it, and we schemed that we would go. It’s open the 2nd weekend of every month and May’s just happened to fall on Mother’s Day weekend. Couldn’t have worked out better if we planned it. We took our time driving the scenic route from my parents’ home in central-western Alabama, winding along back roads and through towns with no stoplights but picturesque old churches into Georgia and finally to the metropolis that is Atlanta. All day Saturday was reserved for the Market. The first building claimed us for the better part of the day, and I’m sure there was plenty we missed. (Especially at the 2nd building were there was a city of tents outside in the hot-hot sun.) There were some gorgeous, genuine antiques that were way out of even our dreaming price range. I had thought I might find some chairs for a dining table I’ve had since my first apartment alone, and that I’ll need now that my roommate is moving out and taking her table and chairs with her. I didn’t bank on it though. Come to find out, it was my mom’s sole motive for going. And, the stars aligned and we found some! According to the dealer, they are 100 years old. I’ll have to get a picture of them with the table.
After being fortified by Fellini’s pizza that night and breakfast at the Flying Biscuit Cafe the next morning, we added a vintage bookstore and a tour of the Margaret Mitchell House to our rambles before heading home. This time we took a shortcut called the interstate. Having such uninterrupted time with my mom was a blessing and reminded me of the importance of taking that time to spend with her. She is someone who always listens, gently advises, can’t work her phone, laughs like a seal, snores to wake the dead, and puts others above herself every chance she gets. She takes more delight in finding old books for my dad, chairs and an old map of Ireland for me than she does in looking for herself. (Though she did enjoy a bizarre dig through a table covered in brass jewelry ephemera once she caught a glimpse of a Santa motif she could turn into a pair of earrings.) The steadfast love of the Lord truly never ceases, and neither does my mom’s.