My First Thrift Store

In high school, I discovered my hometown thrift store: The Thrift Shoppe. It’s the crown jewel of Whitewater, WI as far as I’m concerned. This thrift store has a special place in my heart, not only because it is where my love of thifting began, but also because it hasn’t changed since. It’s a time capsule of bargains.

From the outside, The Thrift Shoppe looks like your grandma’s house. On the inside, however, you’ll find no doilies or plastic-covered furniture. Instead, the 9 rooms of this 100-year-old house are chock full of neatly organized treasures. Owned by the nearby Lutheran Church, this thrift store has been energetically staffed by beautiful grey-haired volunteers for 45 years. In my opinion, it is top-notch in pricing, variety and service. Plus, it’s the definition of “quaint.”

I still remember the first shirt I bought there, in large part because I wore it so often. I loved that shirt. I’m pretty sure I thought it made me super cool, although looking back I needed more than a shirt to help me in that department. I don’t know what happened to it, and sadly the only evidence I have now of its existence is this picture of me wearing it and playing the contra-bass clarinet. Was I super cool, or what?

I do find it strange that I don’t know the whereabouts of that shirt. I tend to hold on to well-loved clothes long after I’ve stopped wearing them. I still have the jean jacket I adored in 5^th grade, a sweater I coveted and saved up for in 9^th grade, and several items from my formative thrifting years in college (some of which still make the rotation to this day).

Why do I hang on to these clothes? Why am I so attached? Am I saving these things for my future children, in the hopes that they’ll be as super cool as I am? Or am I just too sentimental? If I let go of the much-loved things in my life, am I somehow letting go of a part of myself?

These clothes are woven with memories, and for me, part of the memory is the moment we first met: Me, tirelessly searching the t-shirt racks. I spot something promising and my heart skips a beat. A quick scan for stains, size, softness--all signs point to…YES! Well, it is very nice to meet you! You’ll be living with me from now on. Special bonus for being funny or weird. Here’s one of my all time favorites:

It’s not always easy to visit the Whitewater Thrift Shoppe. While they have scheduled hours, they aren’t plentiful. And if you’re only in town because it’s a holiday, forget it. They will probably be closed a week before and after. But this is all part of the charm and what makes it great. Goodwills may be open on Sundays and have a rack of t-shirts a mile long, but they sure don’t have charm.

What The Thrift Shoppe lacks in convenience it more than makes up for in character: the handwritten price tags; the carefully organized craft section; the lovely woman who will write out your receipt in loopy script and gently wrap up your purchases. She will ask you if you go to the university or if you are an artist. She will rip apart the receipt, stab the store copy onto the metal holder and wish you to have a great day. By the sparkle in her eyes, you will know that she means it.

This is the thrift store I want to shoppe at. The next time I head up the creaky stairs to sift through the shirt rack in the attic, I’ll catch a glimpse of the dusty corners of my youth. And it will feel a bit like going home.

Intermittent Forks

When I was in teacher school, I learned about the power of intermittent reinforcement. That's why casinos are such a lucrative business. People feed slot machines because they want to win big and the sporadic small payouts fuel that hope while emptying wallets. Similarly, the intermittent reinforcements of thrifting keep me coming back for more. Going to one estate sale full of Precious Moments figurines and XXL women’s clothing is validated when I score a pile of vintage wrapping paper at another. I find myself not only scouring thrift stores and garage sales for these treasures, but also the places of daily life. My treasure-hunting-antenna is always up!

As a middle school reading teacher (and reinforcement distributor) in Queens, New York, I was lucky enough to teach a program requiring a class-size of no more than 15 students. Having a small class not only saved my sanity, but saved me money while stocking my prize bin. My students never knew when or for what they might receive a raffle ticket, but the chance kept most of them in check. If intermittent reinforcement can wrangle middle schoolers, it is a powerful force indeed.

As a side product of my small classes, however, I was sequestered away in the old home economics room, which hadn’t been used in several years. Opening the door for the first time felt like cracking the seal on a hyperbolic chamber. The stale-aired room was cramped, dusty, and resembled the inside of a house in desperate need of remodeling. Rows of wooden cabinets lined the walls beneath a mysteriously stained drop ceiling and wooden boxes covered exposed gas jets that remained from the previously removed ovens. Ah, to be a teacher.

Middle school is an inherently strange place, and this environment made the experience that much more bizarre. Weirder still was the fact that many of the cabinets and drawers still contained 40-year old dishes, pans and cooking utensils. I don’t know what middle school home economics class made fondue, but look what I found:

Unless there is suddenly money in the budget to teach the finer points of cheese-dunkery, I’m pretty sure no one will miss it.

Several of the drawers and cabinets had been screwed shut, and on the last day of school, I brought my screwdriver and went to work, hoping to unearth a hidden treasure. What I found was better than a pouch of magic beans: a whole drawer full of silverware, several pieces of which were stamped “BD. of ED. N.Y.C.” Jackpot! I couldn’t dream up a better reward for my harrowed time spent in the throes of NYC public education.

Now, every time I sit down to enjoy a meal I can savor that job as a distant memory, one bite at a time. After all, I earned it.

Wrapping Paper Nut

A friend of mine recently went to an estate sale she lovingly refers to as “The Pencil Sharpener Nut Sale.” This is because the house contained approximately 3000 pencil sharpeners, all proudly displayed upon rows and rows of shelving built specifically to hold them. In addition to the pencil sharpeners, the house had hundreds of thimbles and knick-knacks, all meticulously logged on a gigantic Rolodex. I kid you not:

I’m left to wonder, at what point does collection become obsession?

Once a year, there is an explosion of vintage Christmas wrapping paper, ribbons and bows so densely covering my living room floor that even my cat has a hard time getting through. Some people enjoy hobbies such as sports and watching movies. Me? I like to play with my wrapping paper collection.

This was one of those guilt-free, easy-to-start collections. Wrapping paper is small and flat. It’s functional. I can buy it knowing it will be a temporary resident in my home. For a while, I had it limited to one large Rubbermaid tub. Eventually, I had to separate the Christmas wrapping from all other paper requiring me to expand to 2 large containers. And still, trying to fit the lids on is akin to sitting on a suitcase to close the zipper. And let’s not forget about the ribbon bins. And the overflow area. It’s a good thing I love giving gifts.

If you’re getting a gift from me, however, don’t expect anything extraordinary. My best wrapping is reserved for those who appreciate it; those who carefully remove it without tearing and fold it up to be reused. If that’s not you, don’t worry. We can both be happy knowing that the paper you tore off, balled up and threw aside was nothing too special. It’s a win-win.

At this point, I like to believe my interest in wrapping paper lies safely in the collection category rather than obsession territory. Now, once I start logging my wrapping paper in a giant Rolodex, I’ll know I’ve gone over the edge.

Yardstick of Craftiness

I have an affinity for things of uniform size. I’m not sure where this lands me on the OCD spectrum, but anytime I see another vintage yardstick for sale, I want it.

I like the way they look. I like the promotional messages: There isn’t a farm job going we can’t lubricate and One stop shop for all your sewing needs. I like the idea of them all lined up together and their upcycling potential. Plus, if you want to cut them up and glue them to the top of a dresser, there’s no need to measure!

Breaking the Rules

Due to my perpetual fear of crossing into hoarder territory, I have 2 simple rules to follow when thrifting:

Rule #1: Do not buy anything you don’t have a specific use/need for.

Rule #2: Do not buy anything bigger than a breadbox, ESPECIALLY if you don’t have a specific use/need for it.

That’s it. The rules are pretty simple. Today I broke them both:

When it comes to impulse buys, some people buy candy. Apparently, I buy bikes.

Proclaiming a Collection…Gulp!

I’m scared. I think I have a new collection, but I don’t want to admit it. If I say it out loud, it will be real and then there’s no stopping it. People (myself included) will buy me this item as a gift. I will suddenly be neck-deep in this useless thing, gasping for air. Every time I see a new one, I will have to evaluate: Should I get this? Does it pass muster? Do I really have room for one more thing? Oh, the anxiety!

I’m not sure the number at which something officially becomes a collection, but if it’s at least 6, then I’m afraid I’ve got a collection of trophies. There. I said it. Gulp…

I collect trophies.

I’ve got 6 and I want more. I love old trophies: the shiny statuettes, the ornate bases, the engraved nameplates. I love imagining the story. Was there a ceremony? Did everyone cheer? How did someone’s achievement end up in this thrift store for $1?

And why do I want this trophy now? Am I so starved for success that I need to collect someone else’s? Or is it like taking in a stray animal? No one else is going to love this trophy so I’d better give it a good home.

Whatever my reasons, I have come to accept this new path. I will bravely march forward into this dangerous new world, scanning the thrift store aisles as I go.

They Would Want Me to Have It, Right?

If you’ve never been to an estate sale, you haven’t fully lived. Why? Because an estate sale means you are walking around the home of someone who likely just died. All of their possessions are priced and laid out on tables, and a bunch of strangers are milling around touching everything. That’s weird. And I’m one of those strangers. A part of me feels like I should be somber and dressed in black when I go to these things, but honestly, I just want bargains on cool stuff. I justify it because I truly love the things I buy. Better those vintage Anchor Hocking glasses go home with me than to Goodwill. Who knows what unappreciative lout they’ll end up with there?

Sometimes it’s the family who runs the sale, and sometimes it’s a company. They’re called “estate liquidation companies.” Clinical and cold-sounding, I know. That’s why they have names like “Caring Transitions” and “As Time Goes By.” They are professionals at organizing, pricing, and executing the sale of stuff left behind when you are gone.

I think of these sales as antique stores without antique store prices. This equation usually holds up: Estate Sale=Old People=Cool Old Stuff

AND the last day is usually half-price. Heaven.

There is one estate sale company in Milwaukee that seems to have the corner on the market. They have a suspiciously large number of sales. They’re called “Prestige” and they’re hardly prestigious. I hate them. Here’s why:

1. They have an “estate sale with antique store prices” policy

2. They refuse to barter. Ever. I’ve tried.

3. They are always having a sale. Ratty orange signs advertising 60% off are an insult.

I avoid sales by this company now, but before I knew better, I would become so irate my blood would boil. Five dollars for this old cookbook?! Are you insane?? Oh, it’s 60% off? Well, in that case…Ugh!

For some unhealthy reason, and for which I am supremely embarrassed, I felt it my duty to steal from these people.

Everything about these sales seemed like a major injustice. I would show them. I would steal this Santa Claus-riding-a-bike-plastic-canvas-magnet and teach them a lesson!

And even now, I wonder if stealing this makes me a horrible person. I mean, can a horrible person even own a bike-riding-Santa-magnet? Is that possible? My brain tells me it’s wrong to steal, but that part of me that feels entitled to a bargain is powerful and it tells me that I’m right. And maybe, just maybe, the dead person who spent an hour of their life creating this Santa magnet would want me to have it.