I’ve just realized there’s been a theme running through this past week.
A friend of mine is looking for headboards for the twins in her guest room and our entertainment one day was to hit a couple of used furniture stores. (Followed, of course, by lunch. Neither of us is so driven by thrift that we would skip a meal.)
In one store, a consignment shop that sells both furniture and clothing, I ran into an acquaintance. She’s a slim late 60s whom everything looks good on, and she’s been know to wear some pretty kooky outfits, but she carries them off with aplomb. I often wondered where she shopped. Now I know.
Maybe in another day and age, we would have each been embarrassed to be caught flipping through racks of other people’s clothes.
Friday night, I was at a semi-monthly gathering of a few women from town where we swill wine and talk about any number of things. Our hostess is a woman who was once a mover and shaker on Wall Street, and who now sells beautifully hand-crafted reclaimed wood objects. That night she was still euphoric about a killing she’d made at an event featuring donated clothing and the “fill a bag” concept. She modeled a stunning three-quarter leather coat that was part of her $25 bag. We all oohed and aahed, and asked to be notified of the next fundraiser.
Saturday brought thoughts of people I’ve known who would think nothing of buying rickety – but new – furniture, but who would never consider bringing anything used into their home.
The Hub and I went to the Brimfield Flea Market, acres and acres and acres of more things than I can possible describe or than you can imagine.
This is arguably the largest flea market in New England. I know for a fact that Martha herself (the famous ex-con, not me) has shopped here.
We also found a box of poker chips for $5 (never too early to set those grandboys on the road to self-sufficiency), and two picture frames.
Fortunately, the cannon Hub was eyeing stayed there.