Filling A Home With Things With Stories

July 14, 1991|By Linda Lowe Morris

It's late afternoon here in the dining room at Carmen Delzell' house.

A soft breeze picks up the edge of a pair of old lace curtains and blows them across the enamel kitchen table and suddenly your breath catches in your throat as if something important just happened, as if a bit of the past just drifted by on that curtain-ruffling breeze.

But there are other little keys to the past here: a jewel-like old quilt proudly embroidered with names of people probably long dead hangs on the wall. On the floor a hooked rug with horses and a mysterious date: 1944. An old dusty-brown set of shelves with the words "Magic Food" written down the sides. An arrangment on the wall of old tinted photographs. An armoire filled with old dolls and wooden toys.

And over in the living room even more: a cut-down rough wooden table, a sofa from the '30s covered in deep yellow slipcovers, a vase filled with blue hydrangeas, an old white bookcase with the figures of people cut out along its edges.

Upstairs in her bedroom: a line of cowboy boots, old and beautiful, with patterns like nothing you've ever seen before. An iron bed, a blue primitive cupboard, an old table mirror with "Love Dear" written on each side, a stack of Bakelite bracelets.

Scattered throughout the house are scenes, little vignettes of old things that seem to tell stories. In one corner is a little bit of Mexico, in another something of Italy. In still another room, it's more like Texas -- the place where she grew up -- crossed with the '30s and dusted with the rural South.

"Texas," she says, "has a kind of a rough, hot, pioneer feeling. It did when I was little and it still does when I go back. It's dusty. Rough-hewn boards and cowboy boots."

Everywhere are little totems, folk art, little quirky things handmade by someone who just wanted to make something.

It's as if the past has been torn up into little pieces, then, like a collage, glued back together, maybe making something more beautiful than the past ever really was.

Carmen Delzell sits in a chair covered with a vivid flower print, fabric from the '40s she saved until she found a use for it.

"This whole house is just like my grandmother's," she says, looking back toward the dining room where the curtains still float on the breeze.

"I've probably moved 30 times since I started having houses, but I always try to make my house feel like my grandmother's house. Except my grandmother's house, the things that I loved about it were not necessarily the things that she thought were good. For me it was a lot of dolls, old doll things in the attic and all the funny cookpots and little religious things around."

She pauses and then goes on, "I realize now she had terrible taste, you know? She'd go to Woolworth's and get a strawberry-printed tablecloth and matching napkins and matching kitchen curtains and tie them back with little plastic strawberries."

It's hard to describe the mix of nostalgia, bright colors and individuality in this house. Even though it all seems to have a beautiful cohesion, there is no word for it. Whatever it

is, it's as complex as its owner.

Carmen Delzell is a collector of sorts -- although she hates the term -- a collector of old things, of thoughts, of people's stories and of her own past.

And whether they are old prison art picture frames made out of empty cigarette packages or ideas, they are often things that people at some time and place haven't wanted to look at.

Her diarylike commentaries are heard about once every other week on National Public Radio's program, "All Things Considered," and often they focus on the painful parts of her life and the painful parts of society, on people she meets whose lives sometime seem like open wounds. She does battle with ignorance and prejudice in a very direct and unsubtle way, a way that makes some people squirm.

Her essays and short stories have appeared in the now-defunct magazine Wigwag, and she teaches writing at a local college and in her home to a group of loyal students who were unwilling to let her go when the semester ended.

She lives in this Baltimore house with her son Colin, who is 17. Her daughter Ashley, 22, lives in Washington.

Up until a year ago she had a store called Blue Moon, which she first opened in the Adams Morgan section of Washington and then moved to Baltimore to Fells Point in 1988 after Adams Morgan became chic and rents soared.

Blue Moon was a store that sold primitive antiques and things thrown under the term collectibles -- "things that I found in the trash and found at the dump and in attics and stuff," she says.

"People were constantly trying to define what it was I was doing when I had the store. 'Is this an art deco store or is this folk art, or what is this that you're doing?' And I notice that's the same kind of reaction in my house.

"People really seem to think that this is an accident," she says, looking around. "As if I don't know better or I can't afford better."

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