TRYON, N.C. — Recently, I was shopping in one of Tryon’s fine antique shops. 

Well, I really wasn’t shopping, I was browsing. Okay, I wasn’t browsing, I was killing time. 

I discovered a long time ago if you want to kill time, antique shops are the perfect place to do it. No one suspects you’re not shopping if you look serious and involved. 

I generally get into trouble when I seriously shop in an antique store. Like the time when I felt sympathy for a crippled little clock. I could sense the little fellow needed some tender loving care, and since I’m a sucker for old clocks (the kind with numbers).

I took the bait and paid way too much. As I exited, I could hear the shop ladies mumbling in exultation. After all, suckers like me don’t come along that often in antique stores.

Getting back to my story, as I “browsed” I began noticing antiques that looked strangely familiar. 

In fact, these so-called antiques brought back treasured memories of my childhood. Kitchen utensils my mother used in preparing our meals, “whatnots,” as she called them, that once sat on coffee tables and mantles. 

The shop proprietor must have thought I was about to make a purchase as she approached me and asked, “Are you interested in that? They’re kinda rare these days.” 

“What do you mean rare? My mom had three of these... and my grandma had two!”

She eyed me sympathetically, and as kindly as she could, she explained, “These mid-century antiques have been gaining a lot of notice lately.”

“Mid-century? What century?”

Now she was amused. “Mid-twentieth century,” she replied with a chuckle. (Did she really have to chuckle?)

“Well, I suppose that makes me mid-century since I’m a whole lot closer to 70 than 60.”

She didn’t even try to disagree with me. She just said, in a feeble attempt at humor, “If you stand still long enough, we’ll put YOU on a shelf.”

“That’s okay,” I replied, “I know enough people my age who have already been put on a shelf.”

At that, I made a hasty exit.

I have a friend whom I count as a true antique expert. She, too, deals in mid-century antiques — mid-eighteenth century. When I complained about my “browsing” experience, she confirmed what the shop lady said.

“Are you having problems admitting you’re an ‘antique?’”

“Hey,” I protested, “Watch it! Butter churns are antiques. Buggy whips are antiques. Hand-wound Little Ben alarm clocks are NOT antiques, and neither are ‘Eisenhower for President’ bumper stickers.”

She shook her head, “You’re in denial. Really, anything over 50 years old could be classified as an antique.”

That made me feel a little better.

Then I remembered all the antiques I wish I had back. The myriad of ‘50s and ‘60s baseball cards and comic books my mother so indiscriminately and callously tossed out one day while I was in school. Had she not been vying for housekeeper of the year, I may have been able to retire early. Such is the world of the unsavvy antique owner.