One afternoon last week, we drove south along Lake George from our town of Silver Bay to the larger town of Bolton Landing, where there is a Ben and Jerry’s, among other shops, restaurants, etc. Things were going well. We had some ice cream, bought a few little trinkets for the kids. We were just about to go back home when danger struck.

We should have known better when we saw the sign that said ANTIQUES. The barn is full. There is no room for anything new, regardless of how old and beautiful it might be.

But we could not help ourselves. The Sirens were calling. We walked into the store. And moments later, we fell hopelessly in love.

Of course, we did not need a beautifully refurbished 1950’s Esso gas pump from a now-defunct station north of Bolton Landing. But oh, how we wanted it.

Robbi and I have remarkably compatible tastes. When one of us loves a piece of art or a piece of furniture, the other one usually does, too. Several times in our lives we have been struck by powerful, irrational urges for objects we find unbearably beautiful. The gas pump swept us off our mutual feet.

The price gauge maxes out at 99 cents.

The sign on the side is stained with the leaded gas it dispensed so long ago.

It was just as beautiful from the other side.

But it was expensive and huge and served no practical purpose, and we didn’t have any room for it and it wouldn’t fit in our car. We told ourselves these things as we drove back over the mountain to Silver Bay.

For the next four days, we thought often of the gas pump, reminding ourselves how impractical it would be to buy it. Each night we went to bed sure that it was better to err on the side of prudence when it came to the gas pump, but each morning, we would awake wanting the gas pump more than ever.

Late last week, on the day before we were to go home, we left the kids with Robbi’s sister and drove back down to Bolton Landing. We had a plan: to haggle aggressively. We’d name our price, take it or leave it. If they said yes, we’d have ourselves a gas pump. If they said no, we’d walk away and drown our sorrows in ice cream.

We got to the store, ready to wheel and deal. But a different guy was behind the counter. The owner was at the races in Saratoga, out of cell phone range and unavailable for haggling. We were crushed, despondent. We spent a few minutes lovingly gazing at the gas pump then shuffled off with hearts ravaged by self-pity. We ate some ice cream. We went back to the store.

We had an idea. We’d try to call owner on his cell phone. If, by some miracle, the call went through, perhaps the powers that be wanted us to have the gas pump. We made the call. The call went through. We made our aggressive offer. It was immediately accepted. We rejoiced.

Fortunately, Robbi’s dad Bob drives a big, empty van, just the right size for carrying a beautifully refurbished 1950s Esso gas pump.

I even sacrificed two of my seven pillows to ensure the safety of the Esso globe.

And then we wrapped the whole thing like a mummy for safe transport home.

We are home again.

Bob, his van, and the gas pump remain at Lake George for another two weeks. It is torture, being thus parted from the source of our adoration.

Ever since we got back home, we have been pacing around the barn, wondering where in the world we’re going to put the gas pump.

We are lighter in the wallet, but delighted by our purchase. Now we’ll have a little piece of Lake George right here in Maryland to go with our hutch from Savannah, our barn wood table from Baltimore, our antique lamps from Massachusetts, and our glass balls from Alaska.

What’s that you say? You want to see the gas pump again?

All right.