“I

s one never allowed to actually use old furniture?” My housemate’s hand hovered at half-mast, holding the ice-cold beer he had intended placing on the bare table top. Indignant. Because the second I had noticed the droplets of condensation on the outside of the glass, I had placed a coaster directly under the bottle. Lightning fast. “These are antiques,” I said sternly. The yellowwood dough box. The desk. The kitchen table that, on the farm, had been covered by both a sheet and tablecloth to protect its surface. These pieces have lasted 50 years, my face tells him. They aren’t easy to find. Don’t mess with them now.

Our farm was on the dry side of Albertinia, near the bridge across the Gourits River, where a giant of a woman is said to have operated the pont from a small house above the river, and where ghosts roam as though their feet are stuck in glue. It’s a tough part of the world, where farmers farm with rocks and prayer. They buy little. And they certainly don’t buy anything just because it’s beautiful to look at.