Flashback to the 1970s, when I was a part-time shopkeeper in my mother’s art and antique shop by the sea in Essex, Massachusetts.
It wasn’t a job I aspired to, but as the oldest of six children and chief babysitter, sitting in a quiet shop with a book was my idea of heaven.
I remember the day this photograph was taken. The owner of the shop next door, who sold seashells, sea glass, and all manner of little figurines made from both, wandered in with his camera. Neither of us was particularly busy. I was quite content to sit among the antiques and read. I wish I could remember what book I was holding.
Looking at this photograph all these years later, I’m struck by how little has changed in the things that bring me pleasure. My home is filled with an eclectic assortment of art and curious things, books are never far from reach, and I still relish those rare, quiet moments when I can settle in and read undisturbed.
Funny how we spend so much of our lives searching, only to discover that some of the things that make us happiest were there all along.
