As I left Marie's Antique Mall on a recent afternoon, rather pleased with myself for having located a 1930 copy of Red Aces, a collection of mystery novellas the prolific Edgar Wallace wrote about Mr. J.G. Reeder, I was reminded of a comment a colleague once made about my periodic visits to such establishments.

"A particularly enjoyable way of passing a weekend afternoon, I find, is browsing through antiques stores," I had said, or something to that effect.

"Wow, Buddy," he'd replied. "I thought you had a life."

I let it pass, because it wouldn't have made any difference to him that such excursions are usually undertaken for the purpose of adding to my collection of vintage mystery, science fiction, and adventure novels. And I was quite content with my life as it was. Still am. After all, if I'd had his definition of a life, I probably wouldn't have on my shelves a handsome copy of one of Thomas Hanshew's hard-to-find detective stories about Hamilton Cleek, two S.S. Van Dine first editions, and a host of other volumes containing the exploits of such great old characters as Tarzan, Perry Mason, Ellery Queen, Charlie Chan, Dr. Fu Manchu, Mr. Moto, Dr. Kildare, The Saint, and Sir Henry Merrivale.

I love my library very much. Too much, according to my wife, who, while enjoying to read, still insists on believing that a room can be inhabitable even with no books in it. A neat thing about buying old books is that they often come with the signatures of previous owners on the inside covers, old newspaper clippings that were used for bookmarks, sometimes even old photos. It's fun to wonder who the person was, what they did, how they got the book. The same thought can be given to any item one might find in an antiques store. They all once belonged to somebody, and there are untold stories attached to each one.

One of my favorite possessions is just an old piece of wood, about three feet long. Except for rare occasions, it stands vigil beside my bookcases in the study. I'm not even sure how old it is. It belonged to a woman who died years before I was born, and aside from knowing what it is and identifying it for a few people when they've asked, I'd never really thought of my great-great-grandmother's cane as more than a curiosity until an old friend was visiting.

It was late, about a quarter past 11, and the three of us sat in the living room talking about old times and people we used to know. For some reason, I'd picked up the stick and taken it with me to the Green Chair, a recliner my wife's had since before we were married. I sat there and let the stick talk to me, letting the light shine on it, really noticing it for the first time.

Time was, a stick was as much a part of formal dress as a black evening suit with tails and a top hat. Those shiny black sticks with the silver tips and handles - like the one Peter Lorre held in "The Maltese Falcon" as he sat in Sam Spade's office and negotiated with Bogart about finding the black stature that was the stuff dreams are made of. I had the chance to buy one like it in a shop in England a few years ago, and I've always regretted passing it up.

My stick isn't by any means so elegant. It's dull brown and a bit gnarled. It belonged to Callie Green Sizemore, my grandmother's grandmother. After living in and around Trion, Ga., all her life, she died about 45 years ago, while my father and his parents were living in Chicago. The cane passed to Jesse Sizemore, my great-grandfather. By then, Pop had five children of his own. My Grandmother Lucille was the eldest, and Dad is her only child. Now that she and my Aunt Elizabeth are gone, there remain considerably fewer Sizemores on the planet than there used to be.

Which is why I love that stick. It's about all that's left. Pop died in 1988, and I ended up with it sometime after. I don't know any of the yarns it could spin about the times before it came to me, but I gave it one of my own when I was in 10 th grade.

Pop let me borrow it for a play I was in, "The Apollo of Belac." My part was Mr. Lepedura, director of a company in Paris that marketed such fantastic inventions as the adjustable martini and the book that reads itself. It was just a bit part, and I was onstage for maybe 30 seconds, using the cane as part of my costume.

The story was that a woman named Agnes wanted a job at the company and worked her way to it (and marriage to the chairman of the board) with the encouragement of a man who curiously resembled the Greek god of love. My character appreciated the charms of this young woman, and I had the brilliant idea that, after Agnes told me how handsome I was, I'd twirl the stick around in an act of rejuvenated youth.

I spent weeks practicing my twirling routine. And the more I practiced, the worse I got. But I saved the absolute worst for the performance itself, when I came within an inch of striking Agnes with it. Even if I had knocked her silly, I don't know that I'd have been more embarrassed. Maybe I should have asked Pop for some twirling lessons instead of going it on my own.

I seriously doubt that story is one of the better tales Great-great-grandmother Callie's stick knows, but I'm still glad to have added something to its history. Sure, it's just and old piece of wood. But I wouldn't trade it for the world.