Dear Readers, I moved into a new apartment with virtually nothing—no bed, no towels, nothing for cooking, nothing to sit on… I had sevenish suitcases stuffed with clothes, books, photos, costumes, tote bags, hats and office supplies, but I was without anything to actually furnish my apartment.
I quickly discovered that there’s no Goodwills or many second-hand furniture stores around here, so I resorted to engaging with non-English speakers through the Facebook marketplace and OLX. Without having access to my various Texas friends with trucks, I was also limited only to items that people were willing to deliver to my newly-renovated apartment, built on the top floor, inside a former palace (read: refurbished attic).
I found a listing for an antique secretary desk—basically the desk of my girlhood dreams—with cubbies and a large writing surface on a hinge that closed up diagonally to stow away the organized chaos, all atop three spacious drawers, decoratively painted in cream with a gold trim. It was gorgeous. The guy said he’d deliver but expressed concern that I was a potential scammer. Our exchange involved me copying and pasting his responses into a translator and reversing that process with my answers. I agreed to take a rideshare out to the grandma’s house where the desk was stored, and I added: “Please don’t be a serial killer” in Portuguese. That seemed to turn the tables on who was concerned about whom, and he quickly offered to load it up and bring it to me to show good faith despite his concerns that I would change my mind once he arrived. He came with a young woman whom I assumed his wife or girlfriend, and as I handed him the money, he directed me to give it to her. She put her hand on the desk and with a quivering chin, shared that it was her father’s desk before he passed away.
“This was my desk as a girl. I did my homework at this desk,” she said, her eyes welling with tears, pleading for me to love this piece of history as much as she did.
“I’m a writer,” I comforted. Her chin stilled and her eyes widened. “I’ve published two books, and when I was saging this apartment before I moved in, I said aloud I would be publishing more books here. I WILL be writing books from this desk. I’ll also be writing my PhD thesis at this desk. I promise, I will honor this desk.”
Her shoulders untightened and a calm gratitude came over her. I added, “This is the desk I’ve been dreaming about. I’m getting it before even getting a bed!” She laughed, understanding my priorities. Seeing her desk being hauled all the way up to the “penthouse” of a former palace I think also helped provide further confidence in her letting it go, knowing it’s gone to live in a good home…my home.
It felt compulsory to write this week’s column at this amazing piece of furniture, honoring it’s history as well as herstory, but doing what I promised her I’d do: write. It’s a testament to the resilience of dreams and the hard work required to make them reality. Used pieces like this carry with them a story—where it came from, who loved it and the moments it witnessed. It’s not often that we are blessed with this knowledge. I’ve scraped many a bright pink pricing sticker off some incredible Goodwill finds while fantasizing about their sordid past, but I’m truly honored to pay my respects to the little girl with her father still in this world, who did her homework in this very spot. It’s the write thing to do.
Xoxo,
Kelly Stone is an educator, comedian, mother, and author who loves the heck outta the river. She welcomes e-letters at kellystone.org or kellystonecomedy@gmail. com and adores handwritten notes and postcards via good ol’ snail mail.
