Last April, I had the pleasure of uncovering the most amazing vintage lace in a set of bins I purchased.
The seller was a storage unit owner. The unit had gone unpaid for, and no family or friends had responded or claimed the goods. The listing was vague. The price was simple: $100 for everything inside, sight unseen. The only detail I had was this: doll making supplies.
I don’t know what compelled me. I wasn’t particularly into doll making, but something about it felt interesting enough to act on. So I messaged the seller, got in my car, and drove the hour that same day.
What I found was more than I’d bargained for.
There weren’t just a few bins... there were many. More than my car could reasonably hold. The seller forklifted them out on a pallet, and suddenly I was making decisions in real time: emptying plastic bins onto the floor of my car, wedging bags into footwells, leaving behind the containers just to take the contents.
At the time, I still didn’t fully understand what I was bringing home.
Opening the Bins
When I got home, I spread the bins around the room and started opening them one by one.
Bin after bin held lace, carefully folded, rolled, bundled, sometimes labeled. This wasn’t just a stash; it was part of a life’s work. The remnants of an heirloom doll maker’s collection.
As I sorted, I realized I was witnessing the unfolding of a craft I hadn’t known anything about, but was quickly coming to admire.
Learning the Language of Lace
Over the next nine months, I started learning.
At first, it was practical: identifying pieces, researching doll-making components, trying to understand what went with what. But slowly, something deeper emerged. I began to understand the mindset of heirloom doll makers, those who collect materials with historical accuracy in mind, who study period clothing, trims, and construction so their dolls feel rooted in a specific time.
What an art.
The lace, especially, stood out. Some pieces still had descriptive tags attached. Others bore the unmistakable signs of age, irregularity in the weave, a delicacy that modern lace rarely has.
I learned about bobbin lace, and how to spot it. I learned to distinguish older lace from midcentury and modern pieces, not perfectly, but instinctively. Certain patterns. Certain fibers. A feeling, almost, in the hand.
The lace stopped being just “beautiful.” It became informative.
Each piece felt chosen, saved for a reason. Some were narrow trims, perfect for cuffs or collars. Others were wide and dramatic, meant to anchor an entire garment. There were florals, geometrics, delicate nets, sturdy cottons.
What This Find Taught Me
Spending time with this collection changed the way I think about materials.
I started to think about the previous owners of the items I procure. To look closer. To consider where something came from, and who valued it before me. It reminded me that many crafts, some of which are fading away, were once practiced with incredible seriousness and skill.
And it made me feel deeply grateful to be a steward of these materials now.
Not to hoard them. Not to lock them away. But to understand them, document them, and help them find new hands that will appreciate them just as deeply.
Carrying the Craft Forward
This experience reminded me that sometimes the most meaningful discoveries come when you simply follow a hunch. You say yes and you realize you’ve stepped into someone else’s legacy. It's my joy and pleasure to help honor these crafters by truly seeing them, loving what they loved, and passing the materials on.
Lace has become something special to me, not just because it’s beautiful, but because it represents care, history, and the dedication of makers whose work deserves to be seen again.
I’m still learning. Still identifying. Still finding surprises...
And I hope I always am.
