I've been clearing out my external hard drive tonight. I found a folder full of my assignments for a creative writing class I took in the Fall of 2008. That class was one that pushed me far beyond my comfort zone; I actually had to read my writing aloud. Thank God it was never in front of the entire class. But, in ways, a group of 4-5 people can be far more intimidating. For some reason I feel compelled to post one of my assignments. It is in no way complete. In fact, it remains untitled. And I haven't touched it since I was enrolled in the class. I took a lot of inspiration (and, I admit, I even stole a name) from my experiences in second-hand stores in Grand Rapids. It was interesting to read it over again after so long. At one point, I had worked on it for so many consecutive hours that I couldn't think of a thing I could change to make it better. Now I see endless errors, cliches, and horribly passive voicings. Still, I enjoy it. And I hope I spend some time making it something worlds different from my original intentions. Anyway, if you can weather the storm, here she is:
I am mesmerized by second hand stores. It’s something like a hobby of mine. I’m drawn to them, as if by gravity. My feet grow heavier when I walk by, trying their best to fight the store’s magnetic pull. Even if I defeat it at first, I always find some reason to turn around and go back. “I’ll just take a quick peak,” or “I need a new candle holder for the vanilla bean candle Stacy got me.” Stacy’s my sister. She doesn’t share my passion for second-hand stores; but that’s neither here nor there. If I’m going to be perfectly honest, these “quick peaks” I allot myself generally last anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours, though if I didn’t have responsibilities outside the four antique-veiled walls, I could scavenge forever. Old books with shot bindings, the musty smell of grandmothers in the sweater section, distressed furniture. And I’m not talking about that imitation distressed furniture you find in any one of a million Pottery Barns. I mean wooden end tables with the paint peeling back from the intricate grooves and a faded yellowish discoloration down one side, probably from sun damage after twenty years of sitting against a windowed wall in a child’s room. That is the kind of furniture that tells a story. Just about everything in these places has a story to tell. And when they don’t speak loudly enough, I take it as my opportunity to speak for them.
Last week I walked to Stacy’s house to take care of her kids while she ran some errands. It was the first time I needed to break open the cardboard box labeled “winter stuff.” I always get butterflies in my stomach when I step out into the first snow of the season. I walked a new way to her house this time, trying my best to get lost in this city I know better than Robinson Crusoe. I’ve read it seven and a half times. I told myself I was lost. Though I don’t think you can call yourself lost if you know precisely how to get unlost, no matter how foreign everything around you may look. Anyway, on my trek through the sludgy streets of Minneapolis, I found a narrow alley that no man had yet set foot on. At least not since it started snowing. It was too tempting. It is devastatingly uncommon to happen across this newborn snow in the city. The soft, pillowy snow broke away only where I stepped, condensing into perfect shoeprints that I left in a trail behind me. After taking a moment simply to map my path, I lifted my gaze to the shop on my left. “One Man’s Junk.” As in, “is another man’s treasure?” I was sucked in already.
* * *
I once bought an amazing teapot at one of my favorite local second-hand stores. I like to think it was more of an adoption than a purchase. It’s that brilliantly muddy avocado green that everyone had in their kitchens in the seventies. It is smooth and blank on one side, but on the other side there is a curious owl painted in browns and greys mostly. It’s beautiful and realistic, though I’m sure it is hand painted. You can see brush strokes in the stripes and spots of his feathers. When I skim my hand across the surface, I can feel the uneven raised edges of paint. My favorite part though, is the owl’s eyes. They’re extremely exaggerated. But not stretched wide, like he’s frightened or surprised. Just big. And open. I like to think that was the previous owners favorite part about the teapot too. I imagine the one thing that caught my gaze from across the store was the same exact thing that pulled her to the teapot. And she didn’t even look at the price tag stuck on the bottom, because when you come across a find that makes you feel like this, you would willingly go next month without a phone in exchange for it. I think she had to have it, just like I did.
* * *
One Man’s Junk was beautiful. They had some things I had never seen before. Like old records, heated and bent to form bowls. And a black, sequined mini dress that was covered entirely with naked Barbie dolls, attached by their snarled hair. There was a corner of the room with a camera, a white backdrop, and a stool separating the two. The owner must take photographs of items in the store to post on places like Ebay and Craig’s List. I remember wondering if she ever sold the photos. The store was perfectly bursting and chaotic, with unordered, unique trinkets and treasures around every corner. My eyes wanted to wander, but it was hard to take everything in when I was so focused on one thing. I recklessly dug through a trunk of costume-like jewelry when I heard from over my shoulder, “Looking for anything in particular today?” A petite woman with died black hair and leopard-print cowboy boots, the owner as I later found out, was smiling at me. “No, just checking everything out,” I smiled back at her. I lied. I always lied when they asked me that. I would imagine owning a store like that is not too unlike being a bartender. Appealing to people who are always in search of something; they spend their money, keeping their mind off of whatever it is they lack. But then again, maybe I’m the only nutcase in places like these.
* * *
I tell myself time and time again to fight the urge, but frequently I walk into stores like One Man’s Junk, drawn by the hope that I might happen across something of hers that we gave away. Fourteen years later, and it is still painful to say that. Gave away. To give something away implies a conscious recognition of what you’re doing. It’s not like her things were stolen, or got lost over the years. We gave them away. My dad said we needed to just get rid of it. He said it was the only way we would ever be able to move on. I protested. But he thought thirteen was too young to know just what was best for me. I still think it was really only him who just couldn’t stand the sight of it all. I stayed angry at his selfishness for a long time. But I remember when that changed. I was up one night, not knowing how to sleep. I got out of bed, headed to the kitchen to get a midnight snack, but when I reached the door, the sound of my dad crying came charging through my wall like cement blocks, halting me. It was then I realized that he felt the exact same pain I did. And everyone deals with that pain differently. I wanted to forever surround myself with a security blanket of all my mom’s things. He wanted just the opposite.
I don’t quite understand it myself, but of all the things I would love to find in my search, I really hope to be scratching metal hangers around a circular rack until I find one of her aprons. It’s the one she made herself when she decided to join a sewing group. Her dedication to the group didn’t last, but her apron did. She took so much pride in it. I remember when she spilled an entire pot of homemade spaghetti sauce on it. She was no stranger to mistakes like that, but she would never get upset about it. At least not for long. She knew how to laugh at her clumsiness and wear the stains proudly. There was a long-running joke in our family that if the world ended, all that would be left are cockroaches…and mom’s apron. I think she thought the stains gave the apron a history. It’s like running on gravel. The sound the little pebbles make between the pavement and running shoes just makes me feel like more of a runner. She wore that apron almost every time she cooked. And when it came to holiday cooking, she wouldn’t dare even start until she had her apron on. It was tradition.
My dad spent an entire day throwing everything into boxes, aprons included. He packed watches, clothes, photographs, even her postcard collection she started when she was twelve. She didn’t buy them from the places on the cards. In fact she never got to travel to any of the places on her postcards. Though I know she always wanted to. The way she saw it, if she couldn’t actually go to foreign and exotic places, she would just have to take them with her. I remember when my dad came into my room to say goodnight to me one night after mom died. He kissed me on the forehead and as he turned to leave, he saw one of mom’s postcards I had put on the mirror on my vanity. It froze him for a moment. He just stared at it. Then he turned back to me and smiled, as though he never saw it. The postcard was from somewhere in France. A little girl was on the front of it, maybe four years old. She was wearing a beret and matching rain boots, and holding an umbrella. I broke open one of dad’s boxes to get the postcard out. My heart pounded. I knew he would be upset if he caught me. But I also knew he was going to get rid of absolutely everything, so I took it in secret before he could. Mom once told me she picked that one because she thought the girl looked like me when I was little. That’s why I chose to keep it. I didn’t care how badly dad wanted to drown mom’s memory; I wasn’t going to let him do it. I’ve still never found anything of mom’s in any of the stores I visit. The postcard and memories are really all I have. But I find all kinds of things that I know mom would like. I wish she were here so I could share them with her.
* * *
I didn’t find mom’s apron in One Man’s Junk. I didn’t find mom’s anything. But I did buy a belt for Stacy. It is a lot like a belt she had when she was in high school. She never took that belt off. It had intricate Native American style beading on it. She kept it for so long that it grew with her. It was faded and disfigured at each buckle hole. I like finding things in second hand stores that remind me of people I know. And when you finally find it, it’s so gratifying because out of all the miscellaneous knickknacks in the store, there is only one of that perfect gift. That’s what makes these things so special. There is almost no chance that anyone else will give the exact same thing. Thankfully the belt didn’t have much wear on it at all. She couldn’t find out I got it for her in a second hand store. She’d put on a happy face, but I know she wouldn’t wear it.
I took the belt outside the store and melted the fresh snow in my hands to rub away the belt’s small imperfections. My sister thinks I’m crazy to keep things in my house that so many other people have touched and owned before. She thinks there is something dirty about it. I just laugh and think about the carbon copy Fiestaware she keeps in her cupboards. Fiestaware is for people who desire truly unique and original kitchen accessories, but who can’t bring themselves outside Crate & Barrel to find them. Stacy is a lot like mom was in some ways. Three kids, full time job. But always manages to keep the house organized and get dinner on the table every night. It amazes me. I'm not that girl; I could never do that. I’m twenty-seven years old. No kids, no job that anyone would consider a “career,” I barely pay the rent each month. Mom would be proud of me though. And she would certainly never buy Fiestaware. When we had company over, mom’s “good china” was a hodgepodge of different pieces she had collected over the years. Nothing matched, but that’s what made it look so great. But Stacy likes perfection and exactness. To each her own, I suppose. She’s happy with her complete kitchen set of coordinating pastels, and I’m happy weaving up and down the isles of overlooked and discarded beauty all by my lonesome. It’s not unlike mom and her postcards; it’s just something I like to do for myself.
