My Momma loved a good thrift store. I loved Parisian. Which is now Belks. She would burn the brakes stopping for a good yard sale. I would circle the mall looking for the perfect parking spot. She would ooh and aah showing me the things she had found for “just a dollar”!!! I would proudly boast that my platter was Arthur Court. She took my Grandma Brandons vintage baby gown and hung it from a shelf in her room and made it her most prized possession. I filled my home with wall hangings from Kirklands and Hobby Lobby. Greenery from Trees N Trends. She found joy in the history of an item. I saw dirt and rust and dust. I was nothing like her. Never would be. Yeah, right.
Fast forward several years, to the good Lord taking her entirely too early, a disastrous divorce that made me look at “material” things in a whole different light, along with a million other things that would take all day to tell you, and here we are. My name is Kim and I am a junker. A thrifter. A lover of all things old, and dusty, and rusty. It took me a long time to get here, but I’m so glad I did. You can barely walk thru my garage, and you have to eat your Wheaties before you go thrifting with me. It’s a marathon, not a race.
A conversation with me will leave the average person dazed and confused. “So I found this vintage grease can at the KARM store, a wooden rolling pin for $3 at the AmVet (someone sure underpriced that dadgum thing), some old lace at 12 Bushels and I’m gonna take some tea and stain it and make this fabulous American flag I found on Pinterest, and a wooden dough board at the Goodwill that had flour in the cracks of it that HAD to have been there since the Civil War”. I say all this with relish and enthusiasm and the giddiness of a kid at Christmas.
I rarely pay more than $5 for anything, and I have an alert on my phone each month to remind me of the 1/2 price day at my favorite Goodwill (as if I was gonna forget it). I march in there like a boss, and even though there are around 127 folks in there that day, none of them seem to grab for the items that “spark joy” in my heart. I silently gloat when I see someone looking longingly at something in my buggy. I pout and have been known to stalk someone who has something in theirs I want, in the hopes they might change their mind and put it back. I smack my husbands arm and say “How did we miss that”????? Come across a bucket or bin of kitchen gadgets? My heart starts beating fast and my ears start buzzing and everything around me ceases to exist. Be still my vintage hand crank mixer’s heart.
Rest assured, there will be no Marie Kondo’ing going on at my house beyond the way I roll my socks and underwear. Pretty sure she might have the proverbial stroke if she came to my house. Rolling brown sugar cinnamon rolls on my vintage dough board gives me the warm fuzzies. I learned the hard way you can ruin a solid walnut piece by applying chalk paint when you should leave it in it’s natural state. A Flea Market Flip marathon can cause me to stay in bed all day. Simply put, my junk makes me happy. Having a husband who entertains my whims and fancies and compliments me on my thrifting “eye” is just the icing on the cake. I wouldn’t trade my Saturday Goodwill and Cracker Barrel dates with that man for a full day shopping at Belks with dinner at Chris Ruth after. God is great, junk is good, and I know I’m crazy…..