ANTIQUE TALES

Welcome to our Maine Wicked Goods blog, our place to communicate with you a bit more than we do on our FaceBook page. Here you’ll get stories, thoughts, and other tidbits on the life of a small but mighty antique business. We’ve kept things simple, just a running date and an entry. Send your comments to mainewickedgoods@gmail.com; we welcome your input. Also, if you are interested in reading Antique Tales 1 - 17, just head to our Maine Wicked Goods Facebook page.

Antique Tale no. 19 (September 24, 2024)—the coupe. 

“But you have nothing to lose,” Amy wailed. “Just stop in and ask—they might have just what you want!” Claire hesitated. Her search for a single Waterford coupe so far was unsuccessful, though she had looked everywhere. Sure antique shops carried them, but they wouldn’t break up a set to sell her just one. She sighed and gave her friend the answer she was waiting for. “Okay, I’ll stop on my way home.” That afternoon she pulled into Maine Wicked Goods. Like before, she found exactly the pattern she was searching for, but the tag said, “Set of six.” “Darn,” she thought. “A wasted trip.” Just then the woman behind the register approached her. “You look disappointed,” she said. “I am, I just need one of these to complete the set I have at home and I can’t seem to find just one.” The woman smiled. “I’m sure we can take one out—five is good too.” With that she rang up the coupe, tucked it into some pretty tissue, and placed it into a simple paper bag. Claire was astounded. “I’m in love,” she said as she said her goodbyes. “I’m in love with Maine Wicked Goods!”

Antique Tale no. 18 (June 28, 2024)—the wagon. 

“Are you kidding me,” my dad said. “You’re going to keep that old thing? It’s all rusted!”

I smiled and reminded him, “Well you’re the one who gave it to me and that counts for something. Besides, you said you used to use it when you were a kid. I have plans for it—my new apartment has garden space.”

“I guess we can bring it along if there’s room in the truck. But cover it up with an old towel so the rust doesn’t get on anything else.”

That first day after I moved into what would be my home for several years, I filled my dad’s old wagon with potting soil and then planted a whole bunch of petunias. I took a photo and sent it to my dad by snail mail—he never did master cell phones. 

He wrote back immediately: “Not bad for a farmer’s daughter. You know that old tedder in the field? What can you do with that?”