If the dining room set is still there when I go back tomorrow, it’s mine.

There’s something about barely-still-usable furniture that draws me. The attraction is not something new. It started ages ago, after I experienced the thrill of finding an antique dresser for $20 at a yard sale.

“Does it just have the one coat of brown paint?” I remember asking the seller. She assured me it did.

Excited about my purchase, I quickly hauled it to my garage and applied paint remover. Off came the brown paint.  Beneath it was green. I was more amused than upset. After all, I’d only asked the seller about brown. Since the brown had come off easily enough, so should the green. Except under the green paint was tan. Then yellow. Then cream. Finally, though, there was oak. A gorgeous, wavy grain that drank in the stain and wax ’til it glowed.

I put in so many hours restoring that dresser, but the funny thing is-when I was finished, the dresser felt like even more of a bargain. Worth every minute, and more.

From then on, I was hooked by the challenge of trying to find the potential in dilapidated or dull-looking pieces, feeling proud that I was able to see what most others did not. Nothing pleased me more than to have someone question my sanity at the outset of a project. It added to the challenge, made it taste that much better.

Then along came my daughter, who had other plans for my time. The needs of my little one were so constant that I rarely had time to finish the most necessary-to-keep-the-house-standing type projects, much less refinish furniture. Many years passed before I began to dabble again. At 11, she’s old enough now that she can either work alongside me or entertain herself somewhere else, and I’m finding myself once again being drawn to those places where barely-still-usable furniture abounds.

Seldom does a piece in great shape catch my eye. Instead, I’m drawn to the ones thick with paint, missing parts, rotting boards, peeling veneer. A gasp away from the dumpster. Seeing beyond what’s there to what could be there.

Sometimes, it isn’t just damaged furniture that draws me, but anything damaged. One of our cats was once a gasp away from the dumpster. I’m not sure how we saw his potential through all his spitting, scowling, growling and blood-letting. It took a few years to completely work over his harsh exterior, but beneath it was one of the sweetest, most affectionate cats I’ve ever known.  

And then there’s our foster dog, Roo. In spite of her panphobia (fear of everything), something about her persuaded us to give her a chance. Although the jury’s still out on the wisdom of that decision, the glimpses of the dog she can be are becoming a little more frequent, lasting a little bit longer.

I can’t imagine there will ever come a day when I search out perfection, when I forget the satisfaction to be had from investing some time. The destination isn’t always the best part of the trip. Challenges make life interesting. And meeting those challenges make it special. 

The table, chairs, and buffet that I’m hoping to bring home aren’t in good shape. A person doesn’t have to know much about restoration to recognize the amount of work it will take.

Yet I can’t stop thinking about them. Can’t stop seeing how they could look.

And if they’re still there tomorrow, they’re mine.

(Postscript:  THEY WERE STILL THERE! And I ended up with a desk, too.)

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