Showing posts with label Thrift Store. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thrift Store. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Day 26: Pobject's Thrift Store

Items most recently purchased at the Goodwill on Smoky Park Highway:

 

1 standard series video cable and 1 set of standard series AV cables including left/right audio and video. Last week I got a free TV from a colleague who was giving it away. "My partner asked if I knew of a museum I could donate it to." It's an old 27" Sony with a brick of a picture tube. It weighs about 80 pounds. I neither have nor want cable, dish, or a signal converter box. I do, however, have an ancient DVD/VHS player and a handful of movies and shows in both formats, including a VHS copy of the original Star Wars trilogy, as yet un-fucked-up by George Lucas's misadventures in CGI. Of course, to hook this player up I needed the right cables, and just a month or two back I'd donated a box full of electronic accessories, including several such cables, to that very same Goodwill.

1 Joan Osborne CD (Relish). Just a few days previous I'd been talking with my friend about Joan Osborne. We were listening to her wail along with the Holmes Brothers. "Some of her bluesy stuff is beautiful," my friend said. I always love how she uses the word "beautiful". She uses it as a catchall positive word, always strongly accented: "That sunset is beautiful." "This pad thai is beautiful." "The smell of wisteria is beautiful."

14 pieces of solid Hamilton flatware. In the separation my wife claimed the good silver, and rightly so: she'd had it since before we'd been together. It was plain but solid and pleasant. Well-balanced. I was left with a mismatched assortment of flatware, a few from this set, a few more from that. Most painfully I felt the absence of any good-sized spoons. I like a good scoop of soup. What I've got is functional, but not particularly flashy, and I've taken to scrounging in the silver every time I make it to Goodwill. A few trips back I found 6 forks and 8 spoons, all from the same set. They've got heavy knobby handles and good heft. The spoons are generous. I like them a lot. Each time I've gone back since this find I've looked for matching knives, but no luck yet.

1 men's shirt, button-down. It's got a close cross-hatched print in green and brown and goes well with the khaki shorts I like to wear. I didn't notice until I first put it on in the changing room that a bright orange band runs all along the bottom hem, an incongruous gaud adding flair and ostentation. A good pick for bowling nights.

1 baseball-style cap with camo print. We were going tubing on the river that afternoon, and I wanted to get something to keep the sun off my scalp. It's an ad for a local outdoors store. "Spud and Deb's Dog Hunting Supplies" it reads, I think, as little sense as that makes. Maybe it's "Spud and Deb's Hunting Dog Supplies"? Hard to say: the text is broken up by a clip-art quality rendering of a hunting dog, some sort of tricolor hound, making the syntax hard to follow, like the acrostic crosses you'll sometimes find outside of rural churches. In any case, it's not the sort of thing you'd think I'd wear in public. With its ironic donning I took one step closer to true hipsterdom.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Day 20: Thrift store

Prom dress

A lace appliqué covered the high 
luster of buttercup satin.  
I found it at a thrift store 
downtown, Dapper Dan's -
owned by a guy named Norm.

I was 16, and it was $13 - 
the warp-dominated weave,
a minimum number of interlacing - fit my high
school body quite well. 

As I slipped it on in a
phone booth dressing room, I noticed 
the gloss of the surface, 
the dull back.

Friday, June 7, 2013

Day 7: Dobject's Thrift Shop

Greasy gold slim-rimmed glasses.
A ripped pair of grey speckled running shoes.
A white toaster coated in a tacky yellow tinge.

"You know where these clothes come from?"
my grandfather asked me
with boggled eyes, frizzled brows,
the mysterious air
of a magician.
The Goodwill lights were dim,
and his 2001 U.S. Open cap
cast a dark line across his bumpy nose.

Molting sequinned couch cushions.
An entire wall hung with threadbare flowerprint bathrobes.
A single fork with an imitation tortoise-shell plastic.
Crumpled and withering paperbacks by Steven King and Tom Clancy.

I stretched a grey blazer in front of me
with an appraising look.
I almost read him the label in the neck.
"Honduras."
But I stopped: it's the obvious answer,
and he looked to serious to ask,
"What brand?"
He must mean, "From who's house?"

A nice leather jacket from "Special Finds", and it almost fits; $20--
A new looking blender that wasn't on the shelf last week.
The wire bin filled with bras is spilling into the main isle.

"Where's that?" I asked.
A charity group, maybe?
Someone he met in the line
of the DMV who told him the real story
of thrift store donations?
It needs just that kind of conspiracy
to explain why it seems so
inexhaustible.
But he hesitated, and only stared before almost whispering.
"Dead people's dressers."

Sunday, June 2, 2013

Day 2: Lobject's Thrift Store



Lazy days in our twenties antiquing—looking
through the old treasures of grandmothers,
wanting purpose in chiseled metal, an excuse
to purchase it for the utensil drawer or a show-off
wall space above the mantel or guest toilet.
 
Once found old school, colored, glass chicken
dishes like Mama T’s ones—a birthday gift
for a dresser to be filled with studded earrings.
 
Each piece arrived separately, boxes ten times
the size needed, surrounded by white, fluffy
peanuts and the memories of stale hard candy
peppermint and butterscotch that would have
called us rude if we didn’t smile and reach in.
 
Finding things of our mothers in thrift stores
these days—knitted doilies, shiny end tables—
and wondering what items children will find us in.