The peeling and the rust, they speak to me

Yes they speak, I only wonder what it is they're saying.
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It's why I love thrift stops, I guess, and can barely stand to walk through a Nordstrom. I like the old, the unique, the cast off and the authentic. This rusting light pole caught my eye in Port Angeles not long ago. The base once painted a rowdy turquoise, the pole sporting a surprisingly graceful silvery scallop detail. Rain added dark wet freckles to everything.
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Are old things any more authentic than new ones? They have a history, anyway--like my treasured liquor cabinet, which started out life as a hardwood radio console. Kids must have sat in its oaky shadow many years ago, listening to the Howdy Doody Show, and later, Elvis Presley 45's. Then the velvety turntable stopped working. The tuner dial fell off and rolled away. The console was relegated to the basement, where the varnish darkened and the brass fittings tarnished. And now it dwells in my house, stripped and sanded down to its sturdy bones. I fell in love with the rich burled wood, the brass as silky and glowing now as gold. Now it holds what passes for music in my life--vodka, gin, and a handful of pink plastic monkey cocktail skewers.