Things Have a Way of Finding Where They Belong
We are deep into spring planting, and my hands have been spending far more time in the dirt than on my keyboard lately. The tomatoes are settling into the hoop house, the garden is demanding attention, and most days seem to disappear before I realize where they’ve gone.
But every once in a while, my phone buzzes from my back pocket with another notification. Another like, another comment on the video I shared about the Sodus Center mill sign.
The comments and shared memories of the mill pond have been a profound reminder of what it means to grow up in a small town. And I still cannot believe how things have actually played out since that auction, and since I wrote about losing the sign.
When I lost the bidding on the phone number sign from the lumber mill in Sodus Center, I tried to accept it gracefully — really, I did. But I wrote about the sting of losing it, and I thought the story was over when the auction closed.
I didn’t realize that what I wrote had set off a chain of events. The auction company owner read the piece, and before long it had been forwarded to the winning bidder by five different people.
What I also didn’t know was that when he picked up the signs, he told them, “Someone else really wanted these. I only need one. If you can find the other bidder, I’d be willing to offer one to them.”
And I certainly didn’t know that this buyer, a man named Jason, would understand exactly what that painted piece of wood meant to a girl who grew up in Sodus — and would offer to put it in my hands at a very decent price.
When it came time to pick up the sign, Jason invited me over. Now, I will admit, this isn’t the first time I’ve wandered into a stranger’s house lured by the promise of antiques, and if we’re being honest, it probably won’t be the last. But when I stepped inside, I knew Jason understood the value of these things beyond their beauty.
He gave me the tour. We stood there talking about antiques, swapping stories, and remembering local companies that have come and gone. It was such a clear reminder of how these objects connect us to each other, and to the towns and communities that came before us.
When Lisa, the auctioneer, first messaged me with the news, she said something that still chokes me up: “Things have a way of finding their way to where they belong.”
You’d think that those who get to hold a piece of history are the ones with the money. You’d think it all comes down to who can hold their nerve and place the highest bid before the clock runs out. But sometimes it’s about the invisible community of stewards who recognize that an artifact isn’t just an object. It’s a memory, and it knows its way home.
The sign was fragile, Jason warned me it would be. I sealed it carefully with a matte clear coat and hung it in my dining room, where I can see it every day from my usual spot in the kitchen. When I was bidding, I was remembering nights at the pond, and it still holds those memories. But now when I look at it, I also see the hands that passed my story along until a painted piece of wood found its way to a girl from Sodus. It’s no longer just a reminder of my teenage years. It’s proof that we’re connected.
Thank you, Jason. Thank you, Lisa. And thank you to everyone who shared the piece, left a memory of the pond, or quietly forwarded a story about a sign until it found its way back to Sodus hands.
