Letters in the Attic
Searching for vintage treasures and uncovering secrets along the way.
I’m standing outside of a stately 1950s two story brick house. After a gentle knock, I’m welcomed inside. The home, which had been built by architect John D Rodgers Jr. for his parents in the 1950s, had just undergone one of it’s first renovations in 75 years — the removal of it’s original pea green wool carpet revealing virgin hardwood underneath.
Carpet tacks line the staircase and hallway as I’m led to a second story bedroom, where clothes of various decades hang in the closets. My tour guide is not a member of the architect’s family, but the son of the second owners, who moved into the house during his teenage years in the 1970s.
Currently an actor who lives in Atlanta, he has a calm and gentle demeanor, and sits on an antique bed as I pull a 1920s dress from the closet. He talks about his love for televangelist and queer icon Tammy Faye. He notes that though Jim Bakker had committed horrible acts, one of his books allowed him to truly understand God for the first time.
As I pull out a white 1970s robe from the closet, he stands up excitedly and tells me that it belonged to him during his youth. It no longer fits as he tries it on. I notice the tag says “Ahmen”, and given what he just shared, I assume the robe is from a religious company. He informs me it wasn’t religious, and that it was from a catalogue where you “could get things that weren’t available in regular stores”.
Upon my return home, I did some light research into Ah Men, and found it was very much not religious in affiliation, and was a menswear catalogue that featured the hottest fitness and porn actors of the time — providing many closeted gay men a discreet(ish) outlet to explore their sexuality.
I move to another closet in a small adjoining bedroom as he divulges family secrets and trauma that have effected him so intensely, he changed his name. It’s the reason all of the items in the house have hung around as long as they have, as the contents have been tied up in a legal battle lasting a decade.
As a vintage dealer I’m often put in this precarious position, balancing listening to someone’s deepest pain as I dig through closets and make calculated business decisions for what to carry in the shop. More times than not, old objects haven’t been disposed of due to their intertwining with grief.
Each time the moment arrises, I feel honored to be witnessing a stranger in such a vulnerable state, one that feels profoundly intimate, with each encounter peeling away layers of the human condition. I always learn a little more about myself too.
He fondly tells me about his sister being a carefree hippy, who took him to Atlanta clubs and gave him his first cigarette at 16. I learn that our visit fell on the anniversary of her death, Easter Sunday. She was a hoarder who had saved all of her clothing from the groovy days of yore, but they were nowhere to be found in the house. The only remnant of her wardrobe was a 1960s painted leather belt.
I find a 1960s Champion “running man” sweatshirt in the back of yellow built in closet that was mostly filled with unattractive clothing from the 1990s. A basket sits beside the bed and is filled with vintage silk scarves, with a particular one making me do a double take — a Japanese WWII era souvenir scarf featuring illustrations that certainly suggest sexual penetration.
In the hallway an old pram is filled with kids clothing from the 1940s - 1960s, the children of the house had been born through various decades, with my guide being the youngest. In the pram I find a few adult pieces from the time, a favorite being this 1940s striped cotton top with pockets.
I get especially giddy when I learn I’m able to look in the attic, and my excitement builds as I climb up the narrow and precarious pull down ladder. The attic is much hotter than the rest of the house, and I sweat as I look quickly through boxes filled with books, magazines, letters, cards, and clothing — all having been riffled through by squirrels who had made their way inside.
An old metal tin catches my eye, and as I open it I’m greeted with the noxious and overpowering scent of moth balls. I hold my breath as I try to make sense of the textiles that have been stuffed inside. I uncover a few bits that belonged to his grandmother, including a 1920s silk slip, a 1940s cotton bolero, and part of a pink 1940s wool dress that had been cut into a cropped blouse — ironically riddled with moth holes.
I hear my guide ripping up a cruel birthday card from a now deceased relative, it’s pieces silently falling to the attic floor. When I find a pair of 1950s tutus, he smiles and informs me they were worn by one of his sisters when she participated in ballet — he always wanted to join, but doing so as a boy growing up in the South was out of the question. He did however, actively participate in the local theater — sitting in the front row with his mother at countless plays, and eventually gracing the stage himself. The encouragement he received from the theater director led to his life long passion for acting.
As we near the end of our visit, I stand in the entryway while he sits on the bottom of the staircase. He shares his belief in numerology, stating that our names have associated numbers that can be used to decipher energy and destiny. When he looked into his birth name, the results were lack luster, and only further affirmed his intention to change his identity. He uses a temporary name as a placeholder, and is still looking for the right fit. During our visit, he mentioned he had a cousin he cared for named Worth, I suggest that adopting Worth as his name could be a powerful statement leading into his new path.
Feeling reflective after our shared journey through his past, he remarks how the best times in one’s life can feel like they were nearly yesterday — the memories so fresh that the void of time simply melts away.
I hope you all enjoyed a peek into what it’s like to go on a private buy with me. Though the subject remains anonymous, and many details have been left out of this piece, I find myself teetering a fine line of what is appropriate to share. However, I feel that sharing the stories I’m told is important.
For those interested, all of the items featured in this essay are available for purchase via the links provided. For those local, I also brought in several items not featured in this essay into my booth at Atomic. Until next week!
xoxo,
Kari
More tales…
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Such a gorgeous piece of writing that balances open humanity with respect for the subject 💗 ty for sharing
I also work in vintage and really resonated with your reflection on sorting through someone’s life story of love and loss, all the while doing the math of margins in your head. It’s hard to pass on items that carry the weight of grief just because of something as menial as a poorly placed stain (sign of life).