Speaker 1: Hello, this is Martin Willis. A few years ago, I
Speaker 1: was walking my dog on the grounds of the seventeen
Speaker 1: ninety house in Wooburn, Massachusetts. It's a beautiful colonial structure, dignified, steady,
Speaker 1: the kind of building that has witnessed centuries, quietly passing
Speaker 1: by and right beside it Route one twenty eight. If
Speaker 1: you know that highway, you know it never rests. Cars
Speaker 1: and trucks moving north and south in a constant rush, engines, tires, urgency,
Speaker 1: modern life, roaring past early American history. The property borders
Speaker 1: what remains of the Middlesex Canal, an ambitious late eighteenth
Speaker 1: century engineering project that once connected Boston Harbor to the
Speaker 1: Merrimack River. Twenty locks about three feet deep on average.
Speaker 1: Barges pulled by oxen carried timber from New Hampshire's forests
Speaker 1: down to Medford Shipyards. Goods moved as far as conquered
Speaker 1: and back. In its time, that canal represented innovation, infrastructure vision.
Speaker 1: It was the future. So there I was walking along
Speaker 1: that path, traffic humming in the background, when my dog
Speaker 1: darted into thick brush, as dogs do, I pushed through
Speaker 1: the thicket to retrieve him, and that's when I saw it,
Speaker 1: a chiseled granite post rising from the ground. Near the
Speaker 1: top was a hand hammered iron islet, rusted but still
Speaker 1: firmly embedded. It had once secured barges along that canal.
Speaker 1: I stood there for a long moment. When was the
Speaker 1: last time someone truly saw this, not just walked past it,
Speaker 1: but recognized it. That post was once essential. It bore weight,
Speaker 1: it held tension, It served purpose. It mattered. Now it
Speaker 1: sits mostly unnoticed, half hidden beside a busy highway, And that,
Speaker 1: in many ways, is what antiques are. They are infrastructure
Speaker 1: from another world. Standing there, I began imagining the day
Speaker 1: that post was set. The scrape of stone, the metallic
Speaker 1: ring of tools, striking iron men shouting instructions, the sound
Speaker 1: of boots and dirt, the grunt of labor, the snort
Speaker 1: of oxen pulling barges through shallow water. Did those workers
Speaker 1: think they were building history? Probably not. It was likely
Speaker 1: just another long day. But what were they talking about
Speaker 1: that morning? What news was traveling through town? What worried them,
Speaker 1: what made them laugh? What did they expect the future
Speaker 1: to look like? That granite post was no longer just
Speaker 1: stone and iron. It was evidence of people, and that
Speaker 1: is exactly what antiques are. When I turn over an
Speaker 1: eighteenth century chest of drawers, I experienced something similar. I'm
Speaker 1: not just inspecting dovetails or checking condition. I'm looking at
Speaker 1: oxidation that took centuries to develop. I'm touching hand hewn
Speaker 1: glue blocks. I can feel the slight irregularity left by
Speaker 1: a plane pushed by human hands. I see chisel marks.
Speaker 1: Sometimes I find chalk notations inside a drawer, measurements written quickly,
Speaker 1: corrections made mid process. Those are not imperfections, they are presents.
Speaker 1: I imagine a Massachusetts workshop in the late seventeen hundreds.
Speaker 1: Sunlight filtering through small windows, cutting through dusty air, a
Speaker 1: fire burning in the corner to take the edge off
Speaker 1: winter cold, the smell of freshly worked maple or pine,
Speaker 1: the steady rhythm of hand planing, the pause as a
Speaker 1: craftsman steps back to judge proportion. No electricity, no machinery,
Speaker 1: no power tools, tree to finished form, entirely by hand.
Speaker 1: That cabinet maker had a life just as layered as ours.
Speaker 1: He had ambition, he had worries, He had opinions about politics.
Speaker 1: He likely joked with apprentices. He struggled through harsh New
Speaker 1: England winters. He didn't know he was creating something that
Speaker 1: would survive two hundred fifty years. He was simply doing
Speaker 1: his work well, and that is where legacy begins. Antiques
Speaker 1: are often reduced to categories Georgian Federal Queen Anne. We
Speaker 1: talk about market value, condition issues, providence, comparables, and yes,
Speaker 1: that matters, it's part of my profession. But beneath the
Speaker 1: market language lies something deeper. Antiques are tangible continuity. They
Speaker 1: are physical reminders that we are not separate from the past.
Speaker 1: We are extensions of it. Every piece that survives has
Speaker 1: passed through multiple hands. It was made, it was purchased,
Speaker 1: it was used, It was moved from house to house.
Speaker 1: It may have been repaired, modified, protected, neglected, rediscovered. We
Speaker 1: do not truly own antiques. We steward them. We are
Speaker 1: simply the next link in a chain that began long
Speaker 1: before us and ideally will continue long after us. Now.
Speaker 1: I think this idea of stewardship is especially important when
Speaker 1: we consider younger generations. Modern life is digital, fast, streamlined,
Speaker 1: portable experiences are often valued over possessions. Design trends lean, minimal,
Speaker 1: space is limited, Mobility is common and yet younger generations
Speaker 1: are deeply interested in authenticity, in sustainability, in craftsmanship, in
Speaker 1: handmade processes, in provenance, in stories. Antiques embody all of that.
Speaker 1: An eighteenth century chest is sustainable by definition. It has
Speaker 1: already lasted centuries. Its materials were local, its construction was manual.
Speaker 1: Its survival is proof.