Photos and text: Corey Amaro
The other day I found an old book, the pages were barely hanging on, I asked the dealer how much? French Husband looked at the book, looked at me, looked at the dealer and shrugged.
He doesn't get the attraction to things on their last leg.
He doesn't understand that kind of reckless beauty.
His knees don't buckle at the sight of old junky stuff with a price tag…
BUT he does get me. He shrugged, then said, "I am certain it is going to look better the moment you take it home."
French Husband lets me do what I want with our home. He likes how I do what I do. Sure sometimes he pitches a fit about some little thing, like why he can't put a hammock in the living room, or why there isn't a comfortable chair in the house, or have post its on the refrigerator door.
Like I have said a million times to that guy of mine: We both have our passions, we both have our different hobbies that make us who we are… He likes to bungy cord off bridges, go down caves, ride with the wind and fly in the sky… And I like to create a home with falling apart old things from the brocante.
He gets his toys.
I get the house.
I get to hear his adventures without getting dirty or bruised.
He gets to come home, sit on a rickety chair, eat off a chipped plate and sleep with me between heavy linen sheets.
Harmony comes with give and take….. and a few odds and ends.
Leave a Reply