The Legend of Mary Louise: Why This Southerner Will Always Love Shopping Estate Sales

When I was a baby, my mother routinely found me crawling up the stairs to return to my nursery. “You’ve always liked being surrounded by your things,” she says. It’s true: I must have my trinkets. Everything in my house tells my story, from an ashtray turned catchall I boughtat Bar Hemingway in Paris to the Italian game table (with a hidden roulette wheel!) found at a beauty parlor. It’s no surprise that I love estate sales.

A couple of years ago, I visited one held at a Dallas home that was perfectly preserved in the mid-1950s. As I walked through the place, it was as if a black-and-white film turned to color. Items in each room illuminated the owner’s life: a rolling rack of candy-colored cardigans, chintz drapes that matched the bedspread, quilted satin dressing gowns, a bow headband on the vanity, and white lettuce-ware dishes. In the bubblegum-pink primary bath, a hand towel embroidered with the words “Her Majesty” and a cat wearing a crown was placed next to a stack of bright white monogrammed ones. The lady of the house was named Mary Louise, and I instantly felt a connection to her.

To my chagrin, I observed the shoppers around me rifling through her things with a sense of urgency. They seemed propelled by a desire to discover a valuable piece that had been unwittingly discarded, as if we were on an episode of Pawn Stars. I was looking for something that had value, too, but only because it was beautiful, useful, and beloved. By the pool, I found a bar cart, its white iron embellished with roses. I’d been searching for one exactly like it, and there it was. As with all the best purchases, there was no hesitation.

Later that night, after I had set up my find in its new home, I shared photos from the estate sale on Instagram, praising “Her Majesty’s” sublime style. Then I received a message in my inbox. Somehow, Mary Louise’s granddaughter Amie had seen my posts. She said she was happy I got the bar cart and thanked me “for the kind words about Weezie.” It turned out that Mary Louise was called “Weezie” by her grandchildren.

I asked Amie for a photo of her grandmother. She sent a shot of her vacationing in Acapulco in the 1960s, holding a cigarette and wearing a floral swimsuit and a headscarf—and with a smirk on her face. Just as I’d expected, she was a legend.

I spoke with Mary Louise’s daughter, MaryAnne, and she told me more about her. A “spitfire,” Mary Louise never wore pants, favoring St. John skirt suits almost exclusively. “If you went to NorthPark Center [to shop] with her, you’d have to jog to keep up,” she said. Every Saturday, Mary Louise met her girlfriends for lunch at the country club, followed by a few games of mah-jongg. If they were feeling particularly rowdy that day, they would bet a nickel! She always wore lipstick and drove a Corvette, even in her eighties. She traveled extensively and bought a tchotchke to remember each trip. As for the bar cart? For over 60 years, it sat in the breakfast room next to her chair at the head of the table. It was a place to display her latest trinket from abroad.

Since going to that estate sale, I moved from my first home into a 1961 mid-century modern dream house—and, of course, the bar cart came with me. It was more than merely an acquisition; my experience with Mary Louise’s daughter and granddaughter changed the way I shop at these sales. They’re not just collections of stuff—they’re each an amalgamation of another person’s memories. I like to devote a few moments to appreciate the life the owner built within the walls. And when I do serendipitously find a piece to bring home, I consider it a privilege to give new purpose to something old.

One day, when I’m long gone, I hope that someone cherishes the “I Would Prefer Not To” pillow I needlepointed once upon a time. I also hope they come to the same conclusion I reached about Mary Louise and say, “I bet she was a real spitfire.”