People drop fishing poles all the time. This also holds true for antiques anglers. When I leave without a find, this usually owes to one of a series of factors:
a) the item is the size of a baby elephant and I don’t think I can get it into my car;
b) it is not for sale;
c) the owner will not go down on price;
d) I cannot pry it out of its place; and
e) I don’t know the first thing about it, even though I love it.
The first such “escape” I met locally was in a part of Mastic near the rez. A heavily wooded cabin where an estate sale was going on had a bronze plaque on its front lawn. The plaque said, “On March 3, 1619, absolutely nothing happened on this spot.” It was not for sale. I wonder what the current owners of that home think of it.
The second was a gigantic forefinger made out of gray marble. I thought it would look absolutely super right in the middle of my front lawn. A fellow shopper said to me, “Make sure you don’t sit on it.”
Objet #3 was a Victorian hall bench (tall back, hangers for one’s cloak or hat; storage bench; mirror) which I glimpsed while driving down Edwards Avenue in Patchogue Village. It was made of mahogany and had a scallop shell, done in three colors of rare woods, set high into the vertical. I parked my car in front of the house where the thing had been left on the sidewalk. The owner confirmed it was free, but no matter how I tried, I could not figure out how to get it into my vehicle—an old Geo Prizm subcompact.
The fourth escape was an enormous white fiberglass armchair, a piece of “Mid-Century Modern” design which, I think, goes by the name of “The Falcon.” I forget who designed it. There were a few dings in the surface, but I knew that a cousin of mine had the ability to repair it. Trouble is, there was no longer enough storage space in my screenhouse.
Morals? Get a bigger car. Get a bigger encyclopedia. Get a bigger budget.
Editor’s Note: An objet is simply a thing—but usually a special or notable one; from the French, as in objet d’art.