Secondhand Rose

If you’re friends with me on Facebook you’ve seen one of my two recent secondhand scores, a gorgeous orange/red hat that I bought in Lodi for six-and-a-half bucks. Did I need another hat? Of course not. Would I have paid the marked-price of $15.00 for it? Yup. The sale price surprised and delighted me. I’m a simple person, with humble tastes, and I like a bargain.

For the rest of the day, I ruminated — off and on, amidst a busy Saturday — about my proclivity for used clothing, housewares, and the like. I do not actually recall wearing clothes purchased at thrift stores until high school but I certainly got castoffs from my older sisters and my cousins. Once I started buying for myself, I discovered the cost-saving benefit of building a wardrobe from consignment shops.

I’ve had people in my life who turned their noses at my shopping habits. But I persist. My mother once remarked that everything is used when it leaves a store. That made sense to me. As time passes, I find that in many cases, used furniture is made from better materials; and that I can pay less for natural-fiber clothing that other people purchased new at full price. Maybe I’m out of style, a season behind my peers. In reality, I don’t care, and nobody much looks at the way I dress these days.

When I got home yesterday, I offloaded more plants for the community garden then drove around to my house. I realized that my joints had begun to ache with a fierce rage, protesting my trips to the post office, Lodi House Thrift, Sprouts, and Hollanddutch Nursery. Clutching a tin mug of cold water, I stood on my porch contemplating the foot-high grass and wondering where I could find someone to clear my lot. A few minutes later, I went inside, hung my new hat on a peg, and made lunch. Sitting in the quiet of my little home, I remembered my dad calling me his secondhand Rose, with Barbra Streisand’s album playing in the background. I closed my eyes against a sudden swell of tears. After a few minutes, I pushed aside my plate, stood, and began my afternoon chores. As I worked, a swell of music in my head took me back to one of the few sweet memories that I have of my father.

It’s the twenty-second day of the one-hundred and twelfth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.