There's something incredible about these old, wind-worn spaces we call home. Their structure, antiquity, and air of simple, rustic rebellion that time itself hasn't been able to tame. They're like antique portals to a past long left behind yet ever-vivid in memory.
At the heart of my vast, wind-swept prairie stands a beacon of my childhood— an antique windmill. Its bony, weather-beaten structure stands in stark contrast against the blue Texan sky. Its once vibrant red paint now appears as mere smudges upon the wood, aged and worn by the relentless beating of the Texas sun.
This old windmill may not look like much to a newcomer's eye, but let me tell y'all, she is a wonder of stories and memories as boundless as the prairie herself. This sturdy, steadfast structure has been the silent witness of my childhood skirmishes, my youthful exploration, and my quiet contemplation as a grown man. She's my unobtrusive companion, a relic casting a long, nostalgic shadow over my family's generations.
Now, you see, I ain't much for porcelain and lace. "Antiques" to me aren't about gold leaf victorian tea cups or dusty grandfather clocks. Antiques bear the imprint of time and memories—nay, folks—it’s the story embedded in them that's valuable. Like how this here windmill has quietly observed the changing eras on our ranch—the cattle herd's fluctuating patterns, nature’s capricious moods, the growth spurts of my kiddos.
There's an antique Ford pickup truck of mine, rusted to the core and forgotten in the far end of the hay barn. Now, it might rightly look like a hunk of junk to you, but that truck was my first horseless ride. That engine and I've had more conversations than I've had with folks in the town, and it's carried me out of more scrapes than I can count.
Or perhaps take that old oak rocking chair worn down by generations of fathers before me. It is in its gentle creak, its reliable rhythm, I’ve lulled my nine rascals to slumber, one generation after the other.
Antiques, you see, are the silent keepers that hold a million stories within their quiet existence. They are the mute, powerful witnesses to the vivid, rustic, and sometimes mad-cappy tales spun by life’s unpredictable loom. Each scar, each worn-out edge speaks volumes on the relentless passage of time.
So, the next time you stumble upon an "antique," look beyond its surface. Who knows it might just reveal an untold story filled with laughter, adventure, and love. Until then, as the Texas sun sets casting long shadows over my beloved prairie home, you'll find me here, under the watchful eyes of my own antique companions, waiting for the dawn of a new day and whatever adventure it might bring.