A Tinful of Memories

Courtesy: Brady's Bunch

Lunch hour found me selling candy to my middle school classmates. With most of them living out in the country, they had reason to envy my proximity to a candy shop, Alger Variety Five & Dime. I could turn a box of Lemon Heads for 15 cents that I had purchased for 10, or a Tangy Taffy for 40 that I had purchase for a quarter.

When I first shopped Big Lots, on a trip visiting my aunt and uncle in Illinois, though, a whole new world of wholesale pricing opened to me. Large bags of candy for mind-bogglingly low prices enticed me to buy a cartload, which I stored in a suitcase under my bed--my own little candy store warehouse. Eventually, the killjoy school principal shut down my enterprise, more concerned with parental complaints, cavities, or classroom distraction--I never figured out which--than impressed by my entrepreneurialism. I reopened once he retired.

My last Lip Lickers Lip Balm tin, which I
thought about selling at Laura's Last Ditch,
though, ultimately, I changed my mind.

At Big Lots, Lip Lickers Lip Balm, on clearance for ten cents each, presented a bargain I couldn't ignore, tempting me to branch out beyond sugary sweets. I bought three cases of Lip Lickers: strawberry, cherry, and watermelon. These, too, I sold to the kids. Going to a small school with seventeen classmates, of which only six were girls, I quickly glutted the market.

I'm a lip balm addict, though, and used the overstock myself. When I finished the second-to-last container nearly a quarter century after purchasing it, I posted the empty tin on eBay. I learned ages ago that people buy the strangest things. I didn't think it would sell for much, but since my 1980s Trapper Keeper fetched a pretty penny, there was only one path to certainty. Multiple bidders pushed the price in excess of $20. Gloating to my friend, Pam, she gushed that she had some, too, complete with contents.

Pam composed an evocative eBay description, celebrating the ubiquitous lip balm's softening to a pleasant consistency when stored in a back pocket, its fruity aroma greeting the nose while the satisfying click of the sliding lid tickled the ears. For her, it was pure nostalgia--nostalgia that she could part with, though, for a price. Hers, with a condition far superior to mine, topped $100 in an all-out bidding war. It might've reached $150, but I can't recall with certainty. I wish I could ask her.

I remember meeting Pam. Socializing in groups of women intimidates me, yet I steeled myself to try the moms' group at my church. While I liked the people there, Pam stood out: we shared an interest in selling online, she was fun, not too straight-laced, and I felt I could be my unedited self around her. When you're as unusual as I am, that says a lot. I enjoyed seeing a friendly, welcoming face at church, someone with whom I could exchange more than pleasantries.

Pam loved the tale of the lip balm tin. To this day, when I first meet someone who knew her, I'm greeted with, "So you're the one who sold the lip balm!" She's been gone nearly a year and a half, having succumbed to cancer, yet she's still breaking the ice, posthumously.

My friend, Pam.

When I think of middle school, I recall my desktop candy and lip balm shop, but mostly I remember not fitting in. When I think of the lip balm, though, it fails to evoke feelings of youthful rejection. Instead I think of Pam, and the feeling of welcome. The sliding lid isn't the only thing that clicked--we did. I regret that we didn't get to know each other better, sooner, outside of church. She deserved to be more than a compartmentalized friend.

It's my nature to sell things. Through the recession, prices on vintage Lip Lickers plummeted, yet I find myself drawn again and again to the lip balm tin, and the temptation of selling it. But a friend is a balm beyond price, so the tin's not for sale, not now. To anyone else it would be just an empty container, but to me, it's full.

It's full of memories.

Next up: Ridiculed for my frugality, I've concluded, Blessed are the Thrifty.
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Blessed are the Thrifty

I know how to pinch a penny. I've been thrifty long enough, I recall the ridicule in middle school because of it.

The Tightwad Gazette. I can't
recommend it highly enough.

Several years ago, my brother's mother-in-law recommended The Tightwad Gazette to me, but, figuring I could've written the book myself, I brushed it off. There's something about hearing a suggestion twice. When my sister, working mightily to save for an adoption, read The Tightwad Gazette and insisted I do likewise, I devoured all three volumes in a few blissful days of non-stop reading. While others might scoff at the offbeat money-saving techniques, I took notes. With The Tightwad Gazette author Amy Dacyczyn encouraging readers to shop secondhand, I bought a needed pair of sweatpants in practically my first trip to a thrift store since childhood.

Yet I didn't eschew the Kohl's clearance racks entirely; my nascent secondhand sensibilities hadn't fully taken hold, and it still seemed superior to purchase new when steep discounts beckoned. But I experienced buyer's remorse frequently. I found a cute knit dress, which pilled and shrunk, unpresentable after its first spin in the Maytag. My husband bought a seemingly indestructible metal garden trowel, but the tip broke off. Our must-have cookware gradually lost its nonstick coating, which I assume we ingested. Most new items promised more than they delivered.

But the more I scoured the secondhand market, the more I appreciated the quality difference between new and used. With Goodwill's shelves teeming with vintage merchandise, I learned I could avoid new item failures. The phrase, "It's brand new!" started to irk me.

I love quality vintage cookware.

Used items have undergone rigorous quality testing. If the clothing will pill or shrink, it already has. If the trowel has dug decades of holes, it's unlikely to break no matter how hard-packed the soil. If Zia Francesca made her famous pasta sauce in the pot ever since her wedding day back in 1946, likely I can put it through a few more decades of home cooking, then bequeath it to my dear ones, along with the family recipes. 

Certainly, some items of yesteryear lacked quality, too, but they're already landfilled. Even if a used selection doesn't serve me long, I find solace in its life with the original owner and its comparatively low price. Unlike new goods with "no user-serviceable parts," it's likely to be repairable. When a new item bites the dust, I'm left with not only a fuller trash can, but the improvident feeling of pure, unadulterated waste--money and resources squandered in equal measure.

I'm glad some people appreciate quality vintage items,
or my shop, Laura's Last Ditch, would be out of business.

Dollars spent at a garage sale, thrift store, or estate sale stay in the local economy and compense the item only, not additional resources used to create and transport it. Buying used online supports a small business owner such as I, or assists in another's decluttering. But, purchase at a typical store, and money goes overseas, enriches a CEO (not that I begrudge the CEO, but still...), and may contribute to forced child labor or degradation of God's beautiful creation.

Buy used, and I see and feel the item, unimpeded by packaging, allowing me to detect how it has held up under normal conditions. I've prevented mounds of waste, and cut the time spent nagging my son to take out the trash. Plus, I adore the amusing unpredictability of thrift stores.

You know packaging is bad when they
sell a tool just to open it. Instead of buying
Open It!, I vote to avoid packaging altogether.

With myriad reasons to purchase secondhand, it's no wonder "It's brand new!" rubs me wrong. I don't use the phrase, lest I give the impression I consider new items superior. Children hear this and learn, if it's not new, they've received less than the best, when the opposite may be true. Really, how much is a tag worth? How much for a curse-eliciting, impenetrable plastic package? Will the $2.99 clearance shirt from Target equal the $2.99 quality shirt from Salvation Army? Even when a store price equals the used price, it doesn't mean the new one deserves a spot in the cart. Instead of considering 'new' the standard of quality, 'tested' makes a worthier standard.

My new ad for Laura's Last Ditch,
celebrating vintage quality.

Do you shop secondhand, or do typical stores still tempt you? As a new year dawns, consider joining "The Compact," or simply commit to avoiding recreational shopping, choosing used instead.

While I pinch my pennies, I'm pinching myself: rather than cursing my things as they fail, I feel blessed to have quality at a reasonable price.

Those middle school friends who ridiculed my frugal ways had a point: thrift can be ridiculous. Ridiculously good.

Next: When my 83-year-old grandma receives her first computer as a surprise birthday gift, she's not the only one Wowed.

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Embarrassed to Be Me

When I first meet someone, I make an attempt to pass for normal. But, when I'm introduced by a friend, I realize it's already too late when I hear the inevitable, "So you're the one who ________ " (fill in the blank with something unusually thrifty, or some curiosity I've sold online). I feel relieved if it's only mildly embarrassing. 

Last week I volunteered at New2You, the thrift store that supports my son's school. Introducing myself to Kris, a fellow volunteer, she began, "I remember hearing about you"--Oh, no, I thought, wondering what strange tidbit she'd present--"from someone, but I don't know who, and I don't remember what." Could it be from the other Laura, about the distressed feminist T-shirt I rescued from the thrift store trash bin last time I volunteered, or could it be from Pam, about the lip balm tin, or..., The possibilities raced through my mind, but I successfully kept my mouth shut, reveling in a rare moment of being almost memorable, but not quite.

Perhaps it's because I was a misfit as a child, never quite so strange to be taunted openly, but unusual enough that the other kids would sacrifice their social standing by getting too chummy with me. My only truly loyal friend through middle school was a boy who sucked the spit from his braces at regular intervals. We'd play chess during lunch break. I think of him occasionally, considering if he ever outgrew his gawkiness. Part of me hopes not; the awkwardness was part of his charm.

I'd never want to relive middle school; I'm not sure anyone would. Perhaps if I had attempted to act more normal, I would've been accepted by my peers. But then I think of some of the most fun I've ever had. It was when I was being myself, with my friends.

And the most fun I've ever had volunteering at the thrift store? Definitely the time I rescued the T-shirt. Whenever I see Lora, she asks me if I've sold it. I trust I will, eventually, and I can't wait to forward the "Etsy Order Confirmation" email to her. We'll both be laughing. I'll probably even give a snort or two, even if it is embarrassing.

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