Maybe it was the photo of the red sprawling building and the mention of sixty antiques dealers’ goods under its roof that first caught me. What hooked me into deciding it was worth driving more than two hours (one way) to investigate, though, was someone’s comment on social media: “It’s impossible to see everything at Treasures Under Sugar Loaf in one day.”
I informed the girls of the massive antiques place in Winona, Minnesota, folding in the reminder it was still my birth month (and I wasn’t done celebrating) with the challenge that people can’t see everything in the building in one visit, and they agreed to a little trip with me.
We hopped into the Toyota last Saturday morning, bound for the charming town of Winona—the birthplace of actress Winona Ryder, it turns out—located in bluff country on the Mississippi River. We stopped first, though, for coffee at Lost Fox downtown Saint Paul. After a mini photo shoot with the café’s mismatched mid-century modern furniture as our backdrop, we pressed the gas pedal for the excitement nestled under Sugar Loaf bluff.
Right inside the front door of the antiques store, I spied a rack of earrings I needed to return to before day’s end. I gazed at my surroundings. Prices throughout the place fluctuated wildly, and lucky for me, the items I liked most were inexpensive.
We browsed the first floor, and soon someone in our party needed to use the bathroom—and maybe we all needed to go, now that the topic was raised. Following a cashier’s pointed finger into the Employees Only restroom, we entered the tiny space together. Everything about the place felt wrong—like we had invaded someone’s private powder room at home—to include the toilet that after its first use wouldn’t properly flush. The water level rose, panic gripped me, and the girls gasped.
No, no, no, no, no!
I seized the traditional plunger and set to work pumping the contents down the porcelain hole. Worthless. I grabbed the accordion-style bellows plunger (with a flange) and pushed like we’d be banished from the store if the proverbial dam broke. I ultimately won, my heart rate returned to normal, and the remaining members of our party declined using the facilities altogether, poor things.
We wandered amongst relics of the past again, and I spotted merchandise that blew me back to my younger years—Smurf drinking glasses, troll dolls, ancient Pyrex bowls, and kids’ ironing boards (like the kind my sister Coco and I owned to use with our toy irons that actually plugged into the wall and grew warm. Yikes.) The array of memory-joggers was endless.
Also, had someone cobbled the building together over the years to expand for the growing number of antiques dealers vying for space under its roof? The varying levels even within floors indicated yes, and it was hard to recall where we had been. By the end of our visit, I scrolled through my mental list of to-buys. Now where were those items again?
I buzzed through all three floors of the building twice in an attempt to locate my orange-glazed ceramic duck planter. Alas, it was lost to me. Maybe someone else had scooped it up? No, Dicka spied its little orange head from across one of many rooms and retrieved it for me.
I left Treasures Under Sugar Loaf with a woven straw bag that said “Bahamas” on it (it was 40% off, so at $6.00, my perceived need was justified), three pairs of earrings, the orange duck, and a little end table for the living room.
As we climbed back into the car and pointed it toward the Twin Cities, we evaluated our visit to the antique store. Were we able to see it all in a day? I decided yes. Our three hours was enough to cover it, although if one were to touch every last thing, pick it up, and consider it from all angles, then no.
“If we had gone into every nook and cranny,” Flicka said on our drive home, “I bet it could’ve taken us all day.”
“Wait,” I said, feeling a little sick. “Was there a nook or cranny we missed?”
My question dangled in the following silence, and now we have to go back.
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*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.