Former neighbors and good friends in Nashville, the Maxwell Beddingtons, had a maxim that comes in very handy when a collector has plenty of ambition but limited time. (I trust Lady B will forgive my French.) It goes like this: “If you see clothes, the yard sale blows.” This is true in the extreme. Excepting the occasional vintage apparel dealer, very (very) few people go to yard sales in search of used clothing. Not only do well established outlets such as Goodwill and the Salvation Army abound in this merchandise already, but the rise and mainstreaming of the consignment store also makes it quite unlikely a collector will find anything much other than heaps of outgrown and faded children’s clothes at the weekend yard sale.

The weekend collector should apply the same maxim, broadly interpreted, to curiosity shops, as well. You can, as it turns out, judge a book by its cover after all. (Call me shallow, but I am, as ever, preoccupied with good form—appearances, the art of presentation, and doing a thing well.)

Do not expect junk outside to mean there is treasure inside.

I am reminded of this maxim weekly, as my routine travels take me through a heavily trafficked corridor along which several “collectibles” shops have sprouted within the past twelve months. Nearly all of them make use of the term “collectibles” in their signage—spelled a variety of fascinating ways—and occupy virtually identical defunct and generic warehouse space. Their only hope of distinguishing their wares and drawing in customers from the highway is in their window dressing, which of course is not confined to windows at all (there often aren’t any windows) but spills out their front doors and into the parking lots. Their goods are their best advertisements and give the collector a thumbnail snapshot of each store’s stock and character. Rarely will these “collectibles” stores showcase clothing, and this is what I mean by taking a broad interpretation: when you see tattered boogie boards, weathered plastic play houses, or bottomless old chairs painted yellow and refashioned into flowerpots, you know not to waste your time. Keep going. If this store is selling “collectibles,” then indeed it appears to specialize in collectible junk. And because it’s such an elusive and subjective word, we should define junk as that which is generally considered by most rational people to belong in the trash bin.

Now, along the same corridor is another store that manages to create a markedly different impression. Not only have the owners taken pains with their whimsical signage that corresponds to their vintage theme, but they also carefully arrange specific items outside their doors to lure customers in. I have seen one of the owners at this work as early as an hour before opening. While not at all fancy antique types, these roadside dealers achieve the right balance between the artful and the weird on a regular basis, and are professional enough to change and adjust their displays almost daily. Rather than the junk that advertises itself all around them, a heavy porcelain claw foot tub (usually filled with ice and soft drinks) anchors their display. Lady B and I were once drawn in by a Domestic sewing machine table with lovely ironwork legs and precious side drawers with original hardware and keys. The outside display gave us an accurate picture of what was to be discovered within. We found a number of 1930s-1950s kitchen sets in superior condition, a few working Philco radios, boxes of old tools that would excite a connoisseur of that genre, a really massive old tobacco basket and more. As suggested by the items on exhibit around the claw foot tub, this is a place the collector feels he or she might find a treasure, if not one day then another.

The Domestic.

So as a rule, never expect that a shop displaying junk outside is hiding its real treasures inside. Spend your time instead on the shops beckoning you with more solid promises: eye-catching ice and blanket chests, a formidably reupholstered wing chair, a claw foot tub.

Lady B and I left without the reasonably priced Domestic that day, a fact that continues to haunt Lady B. She heard they sold it for under $50, and we can only hope it found a good home and has not been transmogrified into a flowerpot.