The timeless art of the thrift

The timeless art of the thrift
                        

I met myself today in the predawn silence of my kitchen. I had deep-cleaned the house the day before, and there’s nothing like a cup of coffee in pristine cleanliness you know will disappear by week’s end. Cats with furry gray hair don’t care about your cleaning attempts. They will look down their nose at you in disdain as puffs of hair glow like a halo around them.

I glance into the dark living room, and it is filled with the soft shapes of garage sale paraphernalia I’ve drug down from the recesses of, well, everywhere in the house. The forecast is rain, so of course that’s when my sale is set to happen. But with it is forecast cool weather, that tingly put-on-a-cardigan weather I love so very much. When we open the door on our tiny garage, I look forward to selling my junk in the cool September air.

My friend Denice succinctly described my love of junk — and her own — with these words, “Go thrifting today. The tingle is worth it.” I’ve had that tingle for many years and won’t be able to rid myself of it in a thousand lifetimes. I wouldn’t want to. The thrill of found objects is a sharp edge of delight, a keen longing that smooths the edges of rough days.

When my children were very small, we brainstormed and gathered with mom and sisters and aunt and cousins, creating a sale that paired our love of junk with the insatiable in-search-of bric-a-brac palate the public has as well. We hunted down and curated piles of goods that we sold as-is or sometimes painted and turned into something new. Some of us used the sale as a vehicle to earn a living. All of us used it for our love of thrift, repurpose, of salvaging what’s been cast off and making it sparkle again. We learned a lot.

Had we stayed with our huge sale, the one we called Junk Fling, we may have been big now. Maybe it would have gained a life of its own and become an even bigger draw. As it was, we had a huge mailing list we sent out cards in the mail to. “When is the next sale?” people would ask. At one point we were having it four times a year. People lined up outside Mom’s garage and waited until we let them in.

That incalculable jangling of excitement — I can still feel it. I miss those days, but life filters out what is important, who remains and who leaves this sphere, and those of us left behind to sift and sort what needs done.

I remain as loyal to thrifted wares as anything I’ve ever been loyal to. My piles of things have been priced and neatly stacked. The tables will be laden and the coffee will brew outside, filling the garage with its earthy aroma. The walls of my house, if they could speak, would tell me they’ve loved holding the pictures I glean, frames and prints paired together to form new abstract duos. The holding on and letting go of certain things, the knowing exactly what thrift store or garage sale that vase came from — it’s a timeless art and one we should give its simple honor.

Melissa Herrera is a columnist, published author and drinker of too many coffees. You can find her book, “TOÑO LIVES,” at www.tinyurl.com/Tonolives or buy one from her in person (because all authors have boxes of their own novel). For inquiries or to purchase, email her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.


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