I first heard the word junking (pronounced junkin’) from my grandmother Spurlin. She used it interchangeably with antiquing. Both terms meant rummaging through someone else’s stuff looking for that perfect, priceless treasure.

I remember spending summers—a week here or there—with “Grommy” and “Pa Pa.” Grommy would get a hankering to go junkin’. So we’d pile into their big LTD Ford and hit every antique store, junk shop, and random barn in Floyd County, Georgia. My grandmother was a pro. She knew the “good stuff” from the true junk. And she knew how to bargain for a better deal. Although, she wasn’t above paying full price for junk if it gave her or her granddaughter the slightest bit of pleasure.

I was a quiet kid with an active imagination and a penchant for entertaining myself. While most 10-year-olds would rather be playing outside with friends, I was quite content picking through faded photographs, time-worn linens, dainty handkerchiefs, and whatever else our search uncovered. I loved it.

When I stepped into an antique shop, it was like stepping into a storybook. Decades-old dust floating in the air looked like a fairy mist when the sunlight hit it just right. The smell of must added a spooky thrill. I tried to imagine where each piece of furniture had come from. I played with forgotten toys and dolls and donned every hat and glove. I crept through crowded aisles and opened drawers with the care of a surgeon, hoping for hidden treasures.

But these junkin’ trips weren’t just entertainment. They were educational. There’s a history lesson in every piece of old furniture and photo album. Geography, too. Grommy also took great care to teach me about antiques. The ins-and-outs of style, wood, and workmanship. And she taught me to appreciate things that are old and gently worn.

It’s been a couple of decades since I went junkin’ with my grandmother. But her influence can be found in almost every corner of my home.