My dining room table with the marquetry top:
My 18-Century French commode:
My 19th-Century French stained glass window in a gilded frame which had followed me from Denver to Wales, to Texas and finally to Baltimore:
My Elizabethan miniature portraits painted in oil on copper engraving plates and which could be immensely valuable if they are the only known wedding portraits of William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway or which could be worthless:
My Victorian pickle castor with the charming bird's feet tongs (had to look this one up to find out it was a pickle castor and not a sugar jar):
And yes, the Ramon Froman painting discussed in the last post:
Along with many other things I had possessed for years but rarely used. The funny thing is, I don't feel sad at all about losing them.
Maybe I should feel sad about not feeling sad.