tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57803746535080409312024-03-12T23:58:22.186-04:00Adventures in Thrift LandJoin me as I reflect on my fun, eccentric, frugal, non-consumptive, thrifty, anti-waste life. And join me on my hunt for hard-to-find vintage kitchenwares. Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-6289965674530659442013-08-28T12:41:00.000-04:002018-04-26T23:21:16.616-04:00Delivered<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://ny-image2.etsy.com/il_570xN.331178366.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://ny-image2.etsy.com/il_570xN.331178366.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The clam steamer that started our odyssey. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My uncle is dying and he's central in my mind as George and I board the bus for FedEx.<br />
<br />
A buyer purchased a <a href="https://www.etsy.com/transaction/82496998" target="_blank">vintage clam steamer</a> with the provision I'd get it out right away. I ship quickly regardless, so I agreed to work a special trip into my schedule in order to unload it. I'm grateful for each sale, but anything that's languished too long--especially if it's large and expensive--generates fist-pumping glee, punctuated by a loud whoop.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
George loves bus rides as much as I enjoy <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank">selling vintage kitchenwares</a>. It's Ozone Action Day, meaning dangerous air quality and free rides on <i>The Rapid. </i>I tote the bulky package a few blocks to the bus stop. I would've taken my cart, but the parcel is too big to fit and I figure we don't have far to walk. As we approach my favorite FedEx along the river in downtown Grand Rapids, I feel anxious when the bus detours. I debate getting off, but figure it will come back, closer to its original route; instead, it goes farther, leaving us a half mile from our destination.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HkTeRNraAX4/V0uyqTsbrlI/AAAAAAAAAtQ/hDOsXu6idpU__B8Fyj-2UkXzqFHwXv6UACLcB/s1600/George%2Bat%2BFedEx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HkTeRNraAX4/V0uyqTsbrlI/AAAAAAAAAtQ/hDOsXu6idpU__B8Fyj-2UkXzqFHwXv6UACLcB/s320/George%2Bat%2BFedEx.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">George at FedEx, in 2010. This time around, though, both boy<br />
and package are much bigger. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But I'm a fast walker, even with the box. I juggle it hip to front, then back again, and consider putting it on my head. My arms beg relief but there's no time to rest--the pickup is in 10 minutes, and I must be on time. I foist it upon my son, who, though bigger by the day, barely sees over the wall of corrugated cardboard. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://katielivesincanada.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/4.png?w=397&h=334" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://katielivesincanada.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/4.png?w=397&h=334" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://katielivesincanada.wordpress.com/2015/10/07/point-roberts-washington-u-s-a/" target="_blank">Point Roberts, Washington</a> is an exclave. So was FedEx. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's easy to cross roads when they're closed, so we arrive with minutes to spare. I'm thankful to be walking, big box notwithstanding<b>;</b> barricades block the street leading to FedEx, completely cutting it off from the rest of downtown unless approached from the opposite side of the river. Recently I sold an item to Point Roberts, Washington, a town on the tip of a peninsula that requires driving through Canada to reach. Fascinated, I googled. The phenomenon is called an <i>exclave</i>. But just as I begin to pity FedEx for losing business to this geographic oddity, I come to pity myself. FedEx appears ominously dark. A sign on the window reads "Closed for road construction, May 21-24." I round the corner anyway.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<br />
I'm not the swearing type, or my son would augment his vocabulary as I futilely try the door. I haven't cussed <i>ever</i>, a factoid that amazed my friend <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/army-buddies.html" target="_blank">Tammy</a> when I mentioned it the week before. Even so, I feel ill-used by the FedEx management that opted to shut down rather than endure Maytag Man boredom, leaving me with not the gloriously empty arms I had anticipated, but an oversized parcel I hardly know what to do with. <br />
<br />
We pass restaurants hopping with dinner patrons on our return to the bus stop. I feel self-conscious whenever it's George's turn to carry the box, fearing they'll question my parental fitness. As much as I strive to save resources--both financial and natural--I question my decision to leave our Nissan garaged. But I promised the buyer I'd send the package today, and though I've already missed the 6:00 FedEx Ground pickup, I begrudgingly resolve to keep my word by upgrading the shipping and taking it to another location for the 8:00 Express. My free bus ride--in a situation I call "frugality gone awry"--will cost me dearly in additional shipping fees. I silently curse the clam steamer, failing to remember that--inconvenience and extra expense aside--my problems are not real problems, and my thrift saves an astonishing amount in the aggregate. <br />
<br />
George and I finally divest ourselves of the parcel two and a half hours after leaving home. We wait at the bus stop again. And wait. And wait. The bus is late, and I feel desperate to be done.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PHaCwPfCZ1g/T9CxjlRQo7I/AAAAAAAAAXw/79pLWLWglF4/s1600/2007-02-22+001+2007-02-22+001.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="124" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PHaCwPfCZ1g/T9CxjlRQo7I/AAAAAAAAAXw/79pLWLWglF4/s200/2007-02-22+001+2007-02-22+001.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">George's first bus ride of the day. <br />
Today it's far from his last. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But, as George and I sit in the grass, necks craned in the direction the bus will come from, I'm smacked with a blessing--the overwhelming feeling I have the best child in the world. One who has been on a staggering eight bus rides today sits next to me, quietly, with a gentle smile and supernatural patience, waiting for his ninth bus to take him home. Repenting for my bad attitude and a self-righteousness that deceived me into thinking only my words count, I try to practice the patience modeled by my autistic son. I pray for my uncle, and thank God for the strength and stamina to carry the box on our long walk, and that we no longer bear our burden.<br />
<br />
Our journey has taken turns we didn't expect. And as I linger on the sidewalk, chatting up a neighbor who's mulching his flower beds, George hurries to his waiting father.<br />
<br />
It is sweet to be home.<br />
<br />
Dear Uncle Mark, may you, too, be surprised by blessing on the tough road you face, and cling to the truth that a loving heavenly father awaits. <br />
<br />
And it is sweet to be home. It is sweet to be home.<br />
<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-72554169325803214222013-08-02T08:24:00.000-04:002016-07-25T15:44:45.232-04:00Swimming in SatisfactionWhile many college students go for the Spring Break debauchery, a more wholesome activity drew me to the Sunshine State: a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bassoon" target="_blank">bassoon</a> audition for the Florida Orchestra.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8fpXQW-b0vA/TrhDgC5W6qI/AAAAAAAAALw/vcgW_gXDwmI/s1600/2007-04-09+002+2007-04-09+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8fpXQW-b0vA/TrhDgC5W6qI/AAAAAAAAALw/vcgW_gXDwmI/s200/2007-04-09+002+2007-04-09+005.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My school friends, future husband, and Bob, <br />
who came to every school orchestra concert. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Having purchased a professional instrument a few years earlier, I struggled mightily. The Heckel bassoon's $18,500 price tag and its attendant monthly payments stretched me to the limit, even though a music scholarship covered all but room and board. As I scrounged for empty soda cans on my college campus, I often thought to be thankful I lived in Michigan, the only state with a ten-cent bottle deposit. <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/f2-1wnX8YxE?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Being broke honed my resourcefulness. I invited my mom and <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/12/wowed.html" target="_blank">grandma</a> to Florida to share the cost of hotel and car rental, making the audition trip just barely within my limited means, while still allowing for minimal sightseeing.<br />
<br />
Traveling side roads along Florida's coast, we passed sign after sign beckoning, <i>Fresh Fish! Fresh Fish!</i> "When we get to Key West," my mom and grandma resolved, "we'll order fresh fish!" They could not pass an eatery without reiterating their dream of consuming seafood straight from the Atlantic, creating a soundtrack for the veritable slideshow of restaurant signage.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DNP8VrZZ1FI/TrhABrFK1_I/AAAAAAAAALo/E8wBoARswGI/s1600/freshfish-wood-sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DNP8VrZZ1FI/TrhABrFK1_I/AAAAAAAAALo/E8wBoARswGI/s320/freshfish-wood-sign.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy: <a href="http://www.pleasantbaytradingcompany.com/">Pleasant Bay Trading Company</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Venice: "Fresh Fish!"<br />
<br />
The Everglades: "Fresh Fish!"<br />
<br />
Key Largo: "Fresh Fish!"<br />
<br />
Marathon: "Fresh Fish! Fresh Fish!"<br />
<br />
And finally, Key West.<br />
<br />
Reluctant to leave my prized bassoon unattended in the car, I hauled it along as we wandered, Goldilocks-style, from restaurant to restaurant. One was too smoky; one, too loud; another, too expensive. Hungry, my mom and grandma settled upon a restaurant that was just right: an oceanside Burger King. In a striking display of irony, each ordered a BK Big Fish sandwich. I was appalled. <i>They</i> were satisfied.<br />
<br />
I crashed and burned at the audition. I had dreamed of being a professional musician since 7th grade. I loved music, and practiced hard. Enjoying a fair amount of success, I scored, as an undergrad, positions in four part-time orchestras, besting graduate students from more prestigious music schools. But I coveted a full-time job that, in my mind, bespoke success.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lirwGEZSPko/TrhEbNGcsLI/AAAAAAAAAL4/ibzeO1tvXiM/s1600/2007-04-09+002+2007-04-09+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lirwGEZSPko/TrhEbNGcsLI/AAAAAAAAAL4/ibzeO1tvXiM/s200/2007-04-09+002+2007-04-09+003.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At my first concert as a full-fledged professional musician, <br />
an outdoor concert with the <a href="http://www.omahasymphony.org/" target="_blank">Omaha Symphony</a>. <br />
Taken by my mom, who drove from Michigan <br />
to participate in the momentous occasion. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Having failed repeatedly, I rejoiced upon winning a spot with the Omaha Symphony. The "one year, may become permanent" status never felt tenuous; all my colleagues expressed confidence that my predecessor would remain in his cushy new post, as principal bassoonist with Sydney Symphony. <br />
<br />
Months later, rumors swirled that he missed America. Yet, I had not properly steeled myself when the personnel manager approached me backstage with what he considered non-news: "I'm sure you've already heard that Roger is returning from Australia." I nodded, then hurried to a dressing room and sobbed. <br />
<br />
Faced anew with the soul-crushing audition process, my husband and I crisscrossed the country. Bassoonists seem rare until you're on the audition circuit. I came close sometimes and felt I'd get another shot at my dreams. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2-rRt2Q_C6o/TrhFp3q4C7I/AAAAAAAAAMA/RKvCehCV2Bc/s1600/2007-04-09+002+2007-04-09+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2-rRt2Q_C6o/TrhFp3q4C7I/AAAAAAAAAMA/RKvCehCV2Bc/s200/2007-04-09+002+2007-04-09+002.JPG" width="182" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mom, niece, and son, <br />
at home in Grand Rapids. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When we learned we were expecting a baby, my mom urged, "Come back home!" And we did. Flipping through the employment section of the<i> International Musician</i> that hit the mail slot of our new home each month, we opted to sit out audition after audition.<br />
<br />
Phoenix? Too far.<br />
<br />
Richmond? Too far.<br />
<br />
Buffalo? Too far.<br />
<br />
<i>My hometown? Just right. </i><br />
<br />
And I realized, babe in arms, delighting in the presence of family, what my elders realized at Key West's oceanfront Burger King:<br />
<br />
Sometimes we bail on our dreams. And we're satisfied.<br />
<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com4Grand Rapids, MI, USA42.9633599 -85.66808630000002742.8906674 -85.759529300000025 43.0360524 -85.576643300000029tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-73783307166552034622012-05-13T00:48:00.000-04:002017-02-01T20:00:33.160-05:00Angels Among Us<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p5zI3EiQSMY/T6671JmCunI/AAAAAAAAAWs/5ea-KffXHoU/s1600/vacant-spartan-sitejpg-a056b552fe060c3c_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p5zI3EiQSMY/T6671JmCunI/AAAAAAAAAWs/5ea-KffXHoU/s200/vacant-spartan-sitejpg-a056b552fe060c3c_large.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">A derelict grocery store that for a short </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">time was an Eberhard's Food Center. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Our refrain attracted the attention of other shoppers at Eberhard's Food Center.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Whenever Eberhard's offered triple coupons, we piled into the Citation to score deals worthy of <i>Extreme Couponing</i>. My mom studied elementary education in college, and though she never held a teaching job, she applied creativity to educating us. Having learned to triple the discount and subtract the product from the item's price, my brother, sister, and I buzzed around the store, each with our own stack of coupons--in a way a modern parent never would allow--returning just long enough to ask, "Mom, is this cheap enough?" if we weren't sure. Items which weren't suitable bargains we conscientiously returned to their correct spots<b>;</b> she taught us math and price comparison while seamlessly integrating thoughtfulness into the curriculum. <br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2xQazqT4aUM/T66-pJ_VSGI/AAAAAAAAAW8/njG-sIxHGpI/s1600/4637910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2xQazqT4aUM/T66-pJ_VSGI/AAAAAAAAAW8/njG-sIxHGpI/s200/4637910.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This shelf of vintage food at a <a href="http://www.estatesales.net/estate-sales/258663.aspx" target="_blank"><br />Missouri estate sale</a> reminds me </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">of my mom's cupboard. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On these shopping sprees, we bought things normally anathema to the frugal: Fruit Roll-Ups, Cap'n Crunch, Gerber Baby Food (my mom favored vegetable and bacon--until someone decided bacon wasn't appropriate for babies and discontinued the
flavor). She took practically anything
if it was free or nearly so. The choicest treats we gobbled up within
days, but some items which seemed so well-priced went into the
cupboards, where they remain decades later.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hHiX79PaQOI/T67ADiItC1I/AAAAAAAAAXE/GaZspbBi1Rk/s1600/il_fullxfull.316008443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hHiX79PaQOI/T67ADiItC1I/AAAAAAAAAXE/GaZspbBi1Rk/s200/il_fullxfull.316008443.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I grew up eating 1950s <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/94101520/vintage-raspberry-jell-o-unopened" target="_blank">Jell-O</a> my mom </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">had purchased for next to nothing at an old </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">general store auction.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Broke as a college student, I employed creative means of feeding myself. The local Meijer store doubled coupons which I had rescued from the recycling Dumpster near my apartment, sometimes allowing me change back at checkout, to the befuddlement of the cashiers. My roommate--whose parents paid for her food-- felt <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/toast-to-thrift.html" target="_blank">squeamish about even the smallest bad spots in produce</a>, donating her rejects to me. And when visiting home, I raided the pantry, which, though full of groceries long expired, offered sustenance I couldn't afford to turn up my nose at--things my mom was as happy to part with as I was to take. No stranger to old food, when we attended the estate auction for Dutton General Store, my mom bought a case of Jell-O. It was easily a quarter century old when we got it, yet it tasted as Jell-O should. Eventually we stopped eating it before we had finished it all<b>;</b> my mom deemed the remaining packages too collectible to consume. They're still buried in her cupboard somewhere. <br />
<br />
There's a thin line between sanity and insanity, and sometimes my mom, when she shops, tiptoes over it. I forswore coupons several years ago. Since we shop at the local produce market, our own kitchen garden, or the salvage store an hour and a half away, I mostly avoid the temptation to collect groceries. I find thrift stores and garage sales problematic, though. It's easy to overbuy for <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank">Laura's Last Ditch</a>. Attending a Voluntary Simplicity study group helped me control the impulse by hammering home that just because something's cheap doesn't mean I have to buy it. I'm constantly admonishing myself, "Leave it to bless someone else."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iflXp8cVfYM/T7AOh8aBcxI/AAAAAAAAAXk/V_tJ7UWTawg/s1600/tn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iflXp8cVfYM/T7AOh8aBcxI/AAAAAAAAAXk/V_tJ7UWTawg/s200/tn.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Kristi offers Halloween candy to George. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Our neighbor, Kristi, had a kind and gentle spirit and a dog to match. George loved to visit her in her lavender house with the fanciful stars on the door. Curious about the person who lived there, we met Kristi soon after moving in. We took to her immediately, and she to us. We visited Kristi and her sweet Saint Bernard often, learning that she loved vegetarian food, but could no longer cook for herself. So, when we made a pot of soup, a homemade pizza, or fresh <a href="http://blog.mlive.com/great-tastes/2009/03/flax_seed_apple_muffins.html" target="_blank">flax and apple muffins</a>, we'd share some. When the weather cooled, we'd leave it as a surprise on her front porch, earning us the moniker "food angels." Kristi possessed a special skill of engaging our autistic son in little conversations. He loved her, and we had ample reason to ponder, too, if there was an angel among us. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T6UE3BvR8Nk/T68T5hf8UnI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/lXvk7WT79HM/s1600/large_FRUGAL18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="144" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T6UE3BvR8Nk/T68T5hf8UnI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/lXvk7WT79HM/s200/large_FRUGAL18.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The flax and apple muffins were</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Kristi's favorite. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MzWVpz1fPDc/T7AOZDzvFZI/AAAAAAAAAXc/vEgRL4OP3i0/s1600/Copy+of+George2005_0610%28002%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MzWVpz1fPDc/T7AOZDzvFZI/AAAAAAAAAXc/vEgRL4OP3i0/s200/Copy+of+George2005_0610(002).JPG" width="200" /></a>It came about so slowly, we hardly realized it. We gradually saw less and less of Kristi, until one day, Lori, her caretaker, told us she no longer needed our food. Kristi was too ill to eat. Not long after, parked cars filled the street in front of her house, and we feared those closest to her had come for final goodbyes. The next day we learned she had passed away.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NzgfyXxzQ9Q/T666vkgjwrI/AAAAAAAAAWc/XS2d2lnTGWU/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NzgfyXxzQ9Q/T666vkgjwrI/AAAAAAAAAWc/XS2d2lnTGWU/s200/images.jpg" width="200" /></a>With Kristi's <i>joie de vivre</i>; she ordered pizza for her funeral. But Kristi had another surprise just for us. She bequeathed us the contents of her cupboards, refrigerator, and freezer--wonderful, expensive, and fun foods we would never, ever buy. If we were Kristi's food angels, it looked like she had dispatched a multitude of the heavenly host to fill our back porch. I doubt most people, as they're dying, give much thought to their neighbors or an over-full pantry, but she took care to bless us with her abundance.<br />
<br />
On my mom's first shopping trip after marrying my dad, she bought a jar of Crosse & Blackwell mincemeat. Bearing a 35-cent price emblazoned in wax crayon indicating it was a markdown, she intended to make mincemeat cookies like Anna-Mae Kaiser's mom's, but never got around to it. While many of our favorite possessions we sold or gave away while preparing for <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/02/dreaming-of-home.html" target="_blank">our many moves</a>, the mincemeat remained a constant through my childhood. A few years ago, my mom--as if to substantiate her sanity--attempted to throw out the 40-year-old mincemeat. Eating old Jell-O consisting of sugar, citric acid, flavors and colorants is
one thing, but the mincemeat pie filling--its contents escaping the confines of the jar and drying on the label--she wouldn't risk. Yet, Becky and I intervened. Who says an heirloom has to be a rocking chair or a wedding ring? <br />
<br />
My mom never filled us with mincemeat cookies, but she filled us with her love--and with her love of frugality, even if it was sometimes frugality gone awry. And in a final benediction some day, she may leave one of her children the mincemeat pie filling. But as for the rest of the food? She'll have to leave <i>that</i> to bless someone else, though only a movie set designer or museum curator could appreciate such a windfall. <br />
<br />
Even though she failed to impart to us the importance of <i>needing</i> an item when considering if it's a good value, in teaching the values that matter most, she excelled. And with her kindness and generosity evident to all who know her, I'm sure some wonder if they have met an angel.<br />
<br />
Happy Mother's Day, Mom! <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. -Hebrews 13:2</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-euX_iuML7ec/UTv0jld9BuI/AAAAAAAAAaI/g465HiY4RbA/s1600/019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">The
dirt parking lot--littered with derelict refrigerators, stoves, </span><span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">and
washers--promises little. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MkCwoLeA4m8/UTyGfzrFZ3I/AAAAAAAAAa4/N2bFygLUU5U/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="123" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MkCwoLeA4m8/UTyGfzrFZ3I/AAAAAAAAAa4/N2bFygLUU5U/s200/004.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://plus.google.com/116950733650763125258/about" target="_blank">Theo's Appliances & Books</a> near Grant, MI. </div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">As I enter Theo's Used Appliances and Books,
Theo </span><span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">himself rises from his easy chair, leaving remnants of a
frozen dinner in front of his TV. I can't quite figure out if he lives
here, but the makeshift kitchen and homey quarters carved from the shop's
corner suggest the possibility. A thin layer of dust covers everything,
and he appears surprised at my entry. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wCD0eQbvq5I/UTv09m7LYdI/AAAAAAAAAaU/aYsu1mlvD7E/s1600/007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wCD0eQbvq5I/UTv09m7LYdI/AAAAAAAAAaU/aYsu1mlvD7E/s200/007.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67"> </span><span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">I find a
mix of newish appliances and nice vintage
units, exceeding the low expectations set by the squat building flanked by overgrown arborvitae. "I don't
spit-shine them," he declares, "or I'd need to charge another $100." <br /><br />I
wish I needed an appliance, because I want to buy from Theo. But he'll sell
anything that isn't nailed down, he says, so I seek an item that might
enrich both of us.
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5FOK1pi0ur4/UTv22-egPXI/AAAAAAAAAaY/_k2kBYzfi9E/s1600/il_fullxfull.403407530_tlmz.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="vintage swing a way can opener" border="0" height="136" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5FOK1pi0ur4/UTv22-egPXI/AAAAAAAAAaY/_k2kBYzfi9E/s200/il_fullxfull.403407530_tlmz.jpg" title="Swing A Way made in usa can openers" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Vintage <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch/search?search_query=opener" target="_blank">Swing-A-Way</a> can openers, <br />
made in USA, available at <br />
<a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch" target="_blank">Laura's Last Ditch</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">A book is out of the question--they occupy a single
shelving unit in his improvised living room that I'd have to climb </span><span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67"></span>over
him to reach. I spy an old <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/84634564/swing-a-way-can-openers-kitchen-utensil?ga_search_query=open" target="_blank">made-in-USA Swing-A-Way can opener</a> that<span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67"> would
do for <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank">Laura's Last Ditch</a>, but hardly dare inquire; with empty Chunky
Soup cans filling a bin, I suspect he'd regret selling it.</span><br />
<br />
<span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67"></span><span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">As I near the exit, making a mental note to return when our iffy stove expires, I spot <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/125010020/box-kite-lamp-pair-70s-retro-bed-side" target="_blank">two retro box kite lamps</a>. I assume
they're knock-off vintage, but on closer inspection, the labels give
them away as the real deal. Theo and I negotiate a price and he pulls
change from his pocket--no cash register needed for this little
hole-in-the-wall used appliance and
book store. </span><br />
<span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67"></span><br />
<span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">I
can't help but feel a kinship to Theo. We're a team, he and I, urging
"Save and conserve!" </span><span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">while society bids "Waste and consume!" It can be
lonely. Sometimes dust collects on my merchandise, too. But
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H429bp697oo/UTv_H89CUlI/AAAAAAAAAag/vdCLoVSG2Ms/s1600/il_570xN.432609199_bqiy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H429bp697oo/UTv_H89CUlI/AAAAAAAAAag/vdCLoVSG2Ms/s200/il_570xN.432609199_bqiy.jpg" width="193" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Tsao Designs <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/125010020/" target="_blank">box kite lamp</a>s available<br />
at <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank">Laura's Last Ditch</a>. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">Theo's </span><span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">Appliances and Books and <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank">Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares</a> survive
thanks to low overhead; the unpretentious demands of their owners; and
customers who stumble into modest shops looking to save money, protect
natural resources, or find the quality lacking in today's merchandise. </span><br />
<span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67"></span><br />
<span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">At
home, I research the <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/125010020/" target="_blank">Tsao Designs box kite lamps</a> but turn up nothing.
Distinctive as they are, and by a designer that commands good prices, I
aim for $190--enough to buy a range from Theo when the need arises. </span><span id="yiv1642335649yui_3_7_2_16_1362062854167_67">It'll be another deal, from the real deal. </span></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Which business do you like to patronize that most people would overlook? Please leave a comment below! </span><script>
!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></span>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-11086365132066358332012-03-31T22:20:00.000-04:002016-07-23T09:15:24.155-04:00Love, Unabridged<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nu35kRtejx4/T3dLLq8VVuI/AAAAAAAAAVs/jbue7kuZkNw/s1600/il_fullxfull.305081773.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nu35kRtejx4/T3dLLq8VVuI/AAAAAAAAAVs/jbue7kuZkNw/s200/il_fullxfull.305081773.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">We had this same dictionary, full of <br />
delightfully obscure words and colorful <br />
lithographs.Courtesy: <a href="http://www.etsy.com/transaction/71137776" target="_blank">PeachyChicBoutique</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mom read to us daily when we were small, then set us free in the public library as soon as we were old enough.<br />
<br />
We had a giant old tome, a Webster's Unabridged, on an oak dictionary stand an arm's reach from our dining room table. <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/02/hes-not-weird-hes-my-brother.html" target="_blank">My brother</a> and I often looked up words, leading us to wend the maze of its yellowed pages, then beckon anyone within earshot to share the delight of our choicest finds. <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/02/dreaming-of-home.html" target="_blank">My sister</a> unwittingly coined words of her own, which she spoke with such authority, the other students--even the teachers--never thought to question them. And we read each evening from the King James Bible--the <i>Authorized</i>
King James Version. Despite--or maybe because of--its antiquated words
and syntax, we preferred the KJV to the comparatively sterile New
International Version.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://img1.etsystatic.com/il_fullxfull.326173693.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://img1.etsystatic.com/il_fullxfull.326173693.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">This phone is available at<br />
<a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/81721752/vintage-rotary-phone-wall-mounted" target="_blank">Laura's Last Ditch</a>. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I suppose my brother, sister, and I have always loved language. <br />
<br />
It's hard to say how much of our character, our likes and dislikes, come from mothers. But I attribute my love of old stuff, quality stuff, and my penchant for <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank">selling it</a>--not just my love of words--to my mom. Saturday afternoons as we'd listen on AM radio to the <i>Bargain Corner</i>--a sort of Craigslist of the air--my mom would drop whatever she was doing to call on our rotary phone about any antiques that seemed advantageously-priced. Many she resold quickly, either from ads in the newspaper or at an occasional flea market booth. One day she brought home a Victrola, to keep. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KxK9xLe2Xm4/T3dJv5zkzVI/AAAAAAAAAVk/lr6xhhdRPa0/s1600/il_570xN.316978759.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KxK9xLe2Xm4/T3dJv5zkzVI/AAAAAAAAAVk/lr6xhhdRPa0/s200/il_570xN.316978759.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: x-small;">One day my mom brought a Victrola home. <br />She didn't know what she was getting herself <br />into. Courtesy: <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/94361857/a-lovely-working-1920s-victrola-full?ref=sr_gallery_1&sref=&ga_search_submit=&ga_search_query=victrola&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_type=vintage&ga_facet=vintage" target="_blank">HartongInternational</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Quaintly obsolete, the Victrola came equipped with records. Flipping through the stack of thick 78s, one short number on each side, few piqued the interest of youngsters, until we got to the Okeh<i> Laughing Record</i>. <br />
<br />
The Okeh <i>Laughing Record</i>, produced in 1922, features a cornetist wailing a mournful tune. A woman chuckles softly, then louder. The cornetist, struggling to maintain composure, eventually abandons his lament to extravagant laughter. We'd play it when friends visited, laughing together until our sides hurt. Mom hated the record<i>--loathed</i> would not be too strong a word--likening it to an insane asylum.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/wAZlPNJhlO0/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wAZlPNJhlO0?feature=player_embedded" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="320"></iframe>We've all had favorite childhood belongings simply disappear. Perhaps parents get rid of them on the sly, as I did with my son's little doodad bag. Filled with treasures, Santa gave it to him at a Christmas party. George added to it little by little, until the sides of the felt bag thinned, aburst from the strain. Not only did I weary of the bag's contents strewn throughout the living room, but I flinched as he carried the ratty thing in public, everywhere he went. One day it had an "accident."<br />
<br />
I marvel that the Okeh <i>Laughing Record</i> didn't realize a similar fate. But my mom, having a certain respect for anything old, instead of smashing it, simply forbade us listen to it. The Okeh <i>Laughing Record</i> mocked us from inside the storage cabinet, until the Victrola and its accompanying record collection fell victim to our move. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-st2mBTYtUEo/T3e87lpyAVI/AAAAAAAAAWU/19iTMqTPsSY/s1600/cbk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-st2mBTYtUEo/T3e87lpyAVI/AAAAAAAAAWU/19iTMqTPsSY/s1600/cbk.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Our little bungalow. We couldn't possibly<br />
fit all my mom's antique furniture into it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/02/dreaming-of-home.html" target="_blank">We downsized</a> from a two-story, four-bedroom house to a tiny two-bedroom bungalow. And before we found the two-bedroom, we looked at a handful of used RVs and campgrounds. Not knowing where we'd go or how much space we'd have, little in our house escaped being slapped with a price tag. The day of our big moving sale, my giddiness at conducting the sale tempered any sadness from parting with my belongings. The consummate saleswoman, my mom had eager buyers queued outside our front door well before opening. Vulture-like, they snatched up her antiques and our everyday belongings. I relished assisting her: taking money, answering questions, and, once I grew weary, closing my bedroom door to rest, reflecting that my spoon-carved antique bed had already sold, and this could be the last time I'd use it.<br />
<br />
My mom, with a fastidiousness she failed to impart to me, had recorded her furniture purchases in a repurposed address book, noting not only their sale prices, but where she bought them and to whom they were sold. In nearly every case, she profited handily. This was the magic of antiques: not only could she enjoy beauty and superior quality, but having chosen judiciously, she made money when the time came to pass them along.<br />
<br />
She still owns the address book. When I stumbled upon it a few years ago, it rekindled memories long dormant: an auction at a country schoolhouse where we played on the ancient seesaw<b>;</b> the friends with whom we abused our piano<b>;</b> my mom loading furniture into the back of our pickup truck to take to the parking lot of the Auction House, knowing, with large for sale signs attached and the right demographic sharing the lot, the truck would return home empty, without the furniture ever suffering the indignity of the auction block. My mom is creative--creative and bold in a way that at once humiliated her children while garnering amazement and pride at her resourcefulness. <br />
<br />
I never needed the old address book to remember the Okeh <i>Laughing Record</i>, though. As soon as my brother and I could visit antiques shops on our own, we'd thumb through stacks of old 78s, hoping to find another. We
never did. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fUrQ5acCHP8/VlYkfUZSNPI/AAAAAAAAAsc/CfdZBsm5wNk/s1600/il_570xN.874778460_syaa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fUrQ5acCHP8/VlYkfUZSNPI/AAAAAAAAAsc/CfdZBsm5wNk/s320/il_570xN.874778460_syaa.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">When I see a <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/97944743" target="_blank">Tupperware Fix'N'Mix bowl</a>, I think of the Spelling Bee. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Two years after our big move, I entered the Scripps-Howard Spelling Bee. I excelled, winning my classroom contest, followed by my school's, then the regional Bee. I learned every word in the book, practicing until it seemed impossible to err. My mom cut the book into strips, paper linguine for the giant yellow <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/97944743" target="_blank">Tupperware Fix 'N' Mix bowl</a>. We'd sit on her bed evenings<b>;</b> she'd read a word and its definition from the bowl, I'd spell it.<br />
<br />
On the big night of the contest that would determine who'd compete in the nation's capital, the reader mispronounced a word, making its first two syllables identical to the next entry alphabetically on the list. I began to spell the wrong word, realizing my error too late. Instead of first place and a trip to DC, I settled for third, winning a dictionary and a savings bond. The rules state that the speller may ask the word reader to give a definition. Had I done so, I wouldn't have flubbed--at least not until they moved from the official word list to the dictionary. I knew the definitions as well as I knew the spellings.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X4g8P6xKp6s/T3dOy_MbBrI/AAAAAAAAAV8/n23fBixpaDc/s1600/fotoinventar.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X4g8P6xKp6s/T3dOy_MbBrI/AAAAAAAAAV8/n23fBixpaDc/s200/fotoinventar.png" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Karl Valentin and Liesl Karlstadt, the comedians <br />responsible for the Okeh <i>Laughing Record</i>. <br />Courtesy: Landesarchiv Baden-Wurttemberg.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I've had plenty of time to forget the words<b>; </b>few truly proved useful.<a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/audio.php?file=cachin01&word=cachinnate&text=%5C%3Cspan%20class%3D%22unicode%22%3E%CB%88%3C%2Fspan%3Eka-k%C9%99-%3Cspan%20class%3D%22unicode%22%3E%CB%8C%3C%2Fspan%3En%C4%81t%5C" target="_blank"><i>Cachinnate</i></a>, though, stands as a notable exception. When I learned its meaning, "to laugh raucously," I immediately recalled the Okeh <i>Laughing Record</i>, ruing that I didn't own the word while we still owned the album.<br />
<br />
A few years ago, at my sister's New Year's Eve party, we
reminisced about the record. Ironically, I couldn't recall its spelling<i>--Okey</i>? <i>Okee</i>? <i>O'Keefe</i>?--but that didn't stop me from tripping downstairs to google
it. My joy at finding the recording on YouTube--eclipsed only by the shared glee of hearing it with nieces and nephew--was quashed once again, as the very matriarch who bought the record to begin with, who taught me the word<i> cachinnate</i> from yellow Tupperware, resumed her decades-old protest that it sounded like an insane asylum.<br />
<br />
I might wonder about anyone who can listen to the Okeh <i>Laughing Record</i> with a straight face. But even if she was a killjoy when it came to our favorite record, my mom showed us her love in myriad ways--not least, helping with Spelling Bee words night after night after night, so I hardly begrudge her refusal to cachinnate with us. Since my autistic son, too, maintained a stoic face when I played it for him, it's fortunate love transcends laughter.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7dTfw1WuWXs/T3db-7LoXyI/AAAAAAAAAWE/zUXtcJzepq0/s1600/il_570xN.312758236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7dTfw1WuWXs/T3db-7LoXyI/AAAAAAAAAWE/zUXtcJzepq0/s200/il_570xN.312758236.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/75874176/vintage-family-bible-easter-decor-large?ga_search_query=bible&ga_search_type=user_shop_ttt_id_6262900" target="_blank">family Bible</a>, in my shop, <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch" target="_blank">Laura's Last Ditch</a>. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I hope, if George knows what happened to his little doodad
bag, that he'll forgive me, too, for killing <i>his</i> joy<b>;</b> sometimes a mother's fragile sanity trumps a child's fancy. And I hope, as I sit next to him on his bed, reading his bedtime stories
and his NIV Bible--devoid as it is of the KJV's poetry and delightful turns of phrase--that he knows that not only does God love him, but I love
him, just as my mom loved me--despite the times I drove her crazy. I hope he knows, even though his language skills are years behind, his reading rudimentary, his spelling skills practically non-existent, and I'll never shepherd him through a Spelling Bee, that love transcends both laughter <i>and</i> language. <br />
<br />
And love never fails--even if your loved ones fail to laugh. <br />
<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail;
whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge,
it shall vanish away. I Corinthians 13:8 (King James Version)</span></i><br />
<br />
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</script><a class="pin-it-button" count-layout="horizontal" href="http://pinterest.com/pin/create/button/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fadventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com%2F&description=Adventures%20in%20Thrift%20Land.%20Essays%20from%20a%20life%20of%20thrift.%20"><img border="0" src="//assets.pinterest.com/images/PinExt.png" title="Pin It" /></a>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-38947083825793676902012-03-01T16:22:00.002-05:002018-07-05T00:19:52.727-04:00On Walsh Street<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WcGmS3Ol3eY/T0_YNnLxjnI/AAAAAAAAAVE/_twigFQlY1k/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WcGmS3Ol3eY/T0_YNnLxjnI/AAAAAAAAAVE/_twigFQlY1k/s320/005.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Our Walsh Street home. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We moved in exactly nine years ago. <br />
<br />
Our first day in the new house, the mail carrier "blessed" us with seven catalogs addressed to the former owners: Pottery Barn, Walpole Woodworkers, Restoration Hardware--more than I can recall. Abhorring junk mail, I dialed each toll-free number to request mailing list removal, an action I repeated daily. Even so, it took months to stanch the flow of advertisements. <br />
<br />
When we <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/swimming-in-satisfaction.html" target="_blank">moved back to my hometown</a> of Grand Rapids, we initially lived in a house that had belonged to my parents. On a busy street, close to the road, it wasn't particularly suited to a family with a curious toddler unable to grasp the danger of fast-moving vehicles, so we asked my Realtor mother to watch for something in a quieter area. When she eventually called about a well-priced home in Alger Heights, she added a distressing disclaimer that since her clients come first, she planned to give first dibs to another couple. After much pleading, my mom relented and showed us the house. A principled real estate agent who does right by her customers, I only succeeded by reminding her that we were her clients, too, having told her ages ago we wanted a bargain in the pleasant city <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/01/city-girl-country-girl.html" target="_blank">neighborhood I fondly remembered</a> from my childhood.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ym8dSNYGz18/T0_539JE1WI/AAAAAAAAAVc/_camW0igYAg/s1600/2007-04-08+001+2007-06-23+009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ym8dSNYGz18/T0_539JE1WI/AAAAAAAAAVc/_camW0igYAg/s320/2007-04-08+001+2007-06-23+009.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">A snowy Walsh Street. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As we drove down Walsh Street, we passed many attractive brick bungalows, each cuter than the last. I adore vintage charm in a house. So, when we pulled up to the one with the 'For Sale' sign, I beheld the vinyl siding and cheap replacement windows, crestfallen. But the price was right, and the lot 50% larger than typical for the neighborhood--perfect for a vegetable garden. I think we knew before crossing the threshold that it would be ours, vinyl and all. <br />
<br />
On a snowy, snowy day we moved in. Judy brought us pumpkin bread, and others came to greet us. The elderly man across the street peered out his window at his new neighbors. When we finally met <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/walter-1920-2011.html" target="_blank">Walter</a>, he proved a dear, caring man who was especially kind to our autistic son, and always eager to invite him in to share a Dutch windmill cookie and to pet Kitty.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cK2crrq_dpc/T0_jdfmn15I/AAAAAAAAAVU/cRvizyuGezU/s1600/dscf0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cK2crrq_dpc/T0_jdfmn15I/AAAAAAAAAVU/cRvizyuGezU/s320/dscf0009.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">George, Irene, and Grandpa Joe</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Next door, Grandpa Joe whiled away afternoons on his porch glider, chatting up walkers, offering biscuits to neighborhood dogs, and waving to passing cars. He'd often invite our son onto his lap for his special rendition of<i> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UAid1DBlvs4" target="_blank">That Little Boy of Mine</a></i>, and we felt, when he sang, <br />
<br />
<i>He's all the world to me<br />
He climbs upon my knee</i><br />
<i>
To me he'll always be</i><br />
<i>
That little boy of mine</i><br />
<br />
that he really meant it, even though he sang it to the other neighborhood children, too.<br />
<br />
We know numerous neighbors, and cherish their presence. Many of them save their boxes and packing peanuts for <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank">Laura's Last Ditch</a>. Steve taps our maple tree each spring (another neighbor, Navin, even made a mini-documentary of the process). Two days ago, Steve brought us homemade maple syrup. He stops by regularly to share a cup of my husband's Romanian coffee, sometimes with another neighbor in tow. On Valentine's Day, we discovered heart-shaped cookies on our back porch, courtesy of Lena across the street. A few years ago, neighborhood musicians formed The Walsh Street Orchestra, meeting on the front lawn to serenade passersby.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-txZgN95XDDo/UAD9sQIMiRI/AAAAAAAAAYI/Gl37KGYi3zU/s1600/2007-05-12+001+2007-05-12+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-txZgN95XDDo/UAD9sQIMiRI/AAAAAAAAAYI/Gl37KGYi3zU/s320/2007-05-12+001+2007-05-12+003.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">The Walsh Street Orchestra. We get together once a summer <br />
for a potluck, followed by music. Everyone's welcome to join <br />
us for dinner and a concert. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
People used to buy a house, put down roots, and stay. Neighbors knew each other. Now, many think nothing of leaving their neighborhood, sometimes even moving out of town away from the support of family and friends. A nicer house beckons, a bigger one where kids won't need to share a room; a more lucrative job, a more prestigious end of town. I'm not convinced it's an advantageous trade. <br />
<br />
When we came back to the house for inspections after our offer was accepted, the owner left for "retail therapy." The first time we heard the expression, my mom and I chuckled. The beautifully appointed home clearly showed she knew how to shop. The Realtor's description on the listing card promised "Pottery Barn-style decor" and, boy, did it deliver. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NFQTISRE2sA/T0-68V7rvaI/AAAAAAAAAU8/4SDTthIWIGM/s1600/2007-04-25+002+2007-04-25+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NFQTISRE2sA/T0-68V7rvaI/AAAAAAAAAU8/4SDTthIWIGM/s200/2007-04-25+002+2007-04-25+002.JPG" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Walter with our son, taken on Walter's<br />
Polaroid camera, around 2005. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I've noticed, when people have a second child, they often buy a minivan (never mind that two safety seats fit easily into a sedan). In my neighborhood of smallish homes, they usually move. Most real estate agents consider Alger Heights a neighborhood of starter homes, failing to consider that families used to stay, that families <i>can</i> stay. Indeed, Lena across the street raised four children in her little house. Walter and Grandpa Joe remained until they died or could no longer live independently, both staying into their nineties. Neighbors mourned their passing. I hope to live in our little home until I'm called to my heavenly one.<br />
<br />
And I hope others will make the same decision--to commit not to bail when things get a little crowded; to enjoy neighbor therapy before retail therapy; to resist mindless spending and compulsive upgrading so there's time and money to help those for whom a little starter house would be a miracle, caring neighbors a balm, a loving family a dream.<br />
<br />
I have a good enough car, good enough clothes, good enough house, good enough family, and a good enough life. Others might find them lacking, but they're from a most unusual catalog, called <i>Extravagant Blessings</i>. And when you enter my Walsh Street home, I hope you can tell I shop there--not because of my style, but because of my thankfulness. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Keep your lives free from the love of money
and be content with what you have, because God has said, “Never will I
leave you; never will I forsake you.”</span><br />
<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-82305838396579829962012-02-14T23:34:00.001-05:002017-03-29T22:43:02.162-04:00He's Not Weird, He's My Brother<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F7fFQYRL1OU/TzsiwCmytHI/AAAAAAAAATw/f_R7QGGLW1Y/s1600/6569_119579602702_599397702_2704397_2388138_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F7fFQYRL1OU/TzsiwCmytHI/AAAAAAAAATw/f_R7QGGLW1Y/s400/6569_119579602702_599397702_2704397_2388138_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">The KHS band. I'm the one behind the knee of the guy in the front, on the left. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We peddled chocolate to fund the trip.<br />
<br />
With a cross-border visit to Toronto awaiting the KHS Band, I discovered the candy bars practically sold themselves. I'd tote them around school, setting an open box on my desk upon arrival in class. In the few minutes before lecture began, kids swarmed, eager to drop their change into my hands in favor of a Caramello or 100 Grand. For each 50-cent candy bar I sold, 25 cents went toward the excursion. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bLu9yBy7s1Q/TzxkMyy9kJI/AAAAAAAAAUY/3LdX6RVDqMI/s1600/419893_2793246195187_1379373642_32381630_5742266_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bLu9yBy7s1Q/TzxkMyy9kJI/AAAAAAAAAUY/3LdX6RVDqMI/s320/419893_2793246195187_1379373642_32381630_5742266_n.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">My senior picture. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My brother, Art, worked the produce department of Daane's Supermarket. Together, we bought and resold musical instruments found through "Band Instruments Wanted" signs we plastered on store bulletin boards throughout Grand Rapids. And I took on music students eager to learn flute or bassoon. While those who clamored for candy bars seemed to have holes in their pockets, ours might've been stitched shut. We understood the value of a dollar, not only from earning our own money, but from a thrifty mother. <br />
<br />
Perhaps my mom suspected she taught us <i>too</i> well. She thought if she gave us spending money, we'd use it on our trip. But, in a spectacle highly uncharacteristic of teenagers, we protested, not wanting the burden of cash we knew we'd barely touch. Preserving our bank account balances was no motivation; we just didn't buy if we didn't have to, and exercised ample creativity to avoid it. Nothing could change our modus operandi--not even money from a parent. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vj2PBEyc8p0/Tzsv1NiGZhI/AAAAAAAAAUI/bpPe6cPM3xE/s1600/140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vj2PBEyc8p0/Tzsv1NiGZhI/AAAAAAAAAUI/bpPe6cPM3xE/s1600/140.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ask me for a game piece? Certainly!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, while other kids bought souvenirs and oversized meals from the Golden Arches, Art and I enjoyed continental breakfasts, food from home, and freebies from McDonald's Monopoly game coupons others had neglected to pull off their soda cups. We couldn't appreciate the rush our colleagues got from exchanging greenbacks for doohickeys or fast food, but my brother and I understood each other's penchant for money saving, treating it as a competitive sport, as sprinters strive to shave milliseconds off their times. (In thrift we worked together--not so in our frequent Scrabble matches, where besting the other gave a thrill. Since he moved to New York, I miss our contests--rarely do two players so evenly match in both ability and zeal.) <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dXbu6iQ9UYs/TzspLFsoUmI/AAAAAAAAAT4/r2bhq0KnmCs/s1600/2007-07-18+001+2007-07-18+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dXbu6iQ9UYs/TzspLFsoUmI/AAAAAAAAAT4/r2bhq0KnmCs/s320/2007-07-18+001+2007-07-18+003.JPG" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother, in his musical instrument repair workshop. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In Toronto, on a free afternoon, Art and I explored together, taking in the Royal Ontario Museum and its impressive collection of antique musical instruments. <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/swimming-in-satisfaction.html">I was to become a professional musician</a>, my brother a musical instrument repairman. The chaperones on the trip worried about us. Concluding we must not be having any fun, they badgered us to spend. Somehow, they confused buying tchotchkes and junk food with delight, frugality with poverty. With no reason to feel sorry for ourselves, though, we had a good time enjoying each other's company, appreciating a wonderful musical instrument collection (which, sadly, has languished in archives since 1991, shortly after we visited), and playing games late into the night at the Howard Johnson Hotel. <br />
<br />
Some shy away from labels. But when I say, "I'm vegetarian," people easily comprehend, so I suffer few strange looks. I've known for years I'm frugal, but when I participated in a Voluntary Simplicity discussion group several years ago, I discovered my philosophy owned a name. And when I heard the term, "<a href="http://thenonconsumeradvocate.com/">non-consumer</a>" recently, I knew the moniker fit. How I wish I had had an easy label to inform the chaperones and my fellow students.<br />
<br />
In lieu of a better one-word explanation, 'weird' stuck. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uqLVLL5LA58/Tzspw38MjxI/AAAAAAAAAUA/3hy3HhRR144/s1600/2007-07-18+001+2007-07-18+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uqLVLL5LA58/Tzspw38MjxI/AAAAAAAAAUA/3hy3HhRR144/s320/2007-07-18+001+2007-07-18+002.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Art and I enjoying more frugal fun, back in 1994. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Art and I came home from Toronto with more money than we left with. Not only
did we not spend anything, but we picked up change on the ground along the way. Art even found a wadded bill on the CN Tower elevator. We turned our cooler into a makeshift vending machine, selling refreshments on the bus to our fellow travelers. (And we're still selling--<a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/">I on Etsy</a>, my <a href="http://stores.ebay.com/Upstate-Oddities">brother on eBay</a>.)<br />
<br />
In high school, we
grew
close, divesting ourselves of the bickering and sibling rivalry of
youth, sharing our love of musical instruments, Scrabble,
and, of course, frugality. While the other students brought back kitschy mementos, my
brother and I returned with full pockets, and a fuller appreciation of
each other--and the 'weird' label (which would score eight points in Scrabble, and follow us throughout high school). <br />
<br />
But that didn't bother us much--not when my brother and I had our own new label for each other, one with a higher value:<br />
<br />
'Friend.'<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Do you have a special friendship with a sibling? A memory of a fun school trip? Please comment below! </span><br />
<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-65587514001562140732012-02-02T10:16:00.000-05:002012-12-29T22:45:12.172-05:00Dreaming of Home<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.secondchancegarage.com/public/photogallery2/1968-vw-van/1968-vw-van-ds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="108" src="http://www.secondchancegarage.com/public/photogallery2/1968-vw-van/1968-vw-van-ds.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">A Volkswagen van such as Uncle Paul <br />
drove. Courtesy: <a href="http://www.secondchancegarage.com/public/photogallery2/1968-vw-van-ds.cfm">Second Chance Garage</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My mysterious Uncle Paul would come to the occasional family dinner in an old Volkswagen van that doubled as bedroom and transportation. My mom called him a nomad; I don't think she meant it as a euphemism for homeless, rather, that he enjoyed the gypsy life. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
Having lived in six houses by the
time I turned 13, I've been a bit of a nomad myself. My parents planned to build their dream home,
patterned after a Cape Cod beauty we passed Sundays on the way to church. We
all loved the structure--its no-expenses-spared detail, its symmetry, its
picket fence. My sister, full of youthful bravado, claimed she would own
it someday. My parents, satisfied to build a near-replica in the Princeton Estates subdivision,
purchased a lot backing up to the woods behind the house we lived in at the time.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vCOywfBfWIQ/TzxiqiRkcjI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/HQ7hQlWClMA/s1600/419672_2793240675049_1379373642_32381617_1830111347_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vCOywfBfWIQ/TzxiqiRkcjI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/HQ7hQlWClMA/s320/419672_2793240675049_1379373642_32381617_1830111347_n.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There I am, center, after my Aunt Marilyn's<br />
wedding, which took place in our back yard.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Our Gentian Drive residence seemed the ideal family home, boasting a huge lot with a
creek forking into two, creating a sunny
peninsula perfect for a vegetable garden. We explored the woods and roamed the fields. Never minding the creek's
official name, Crippen Drain, we waded in it, catching crawfish
which we sold to Glenn's Live Bait--three cents for a little one, a nickel for a
big one. (Some things never change, and <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/">I still search and sell today, only with vintage kitchenwares</a>.) My Aunt Marilyn married in our back yard, the
bridge the aisle, the peninsula the altar. I donned my flower girl dress along with my cousins, but, when a morning rain left wet grass, my mom instead compelled me to carry the train of my aunt's dress to keep it from soiling. I doubt even Simon of Cyrene felt more ill-used.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
The expansive
yard grew burdensome, though, leading my parents to imagine a nicer house with less to mow, less to weed. My forward-thinking <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/01/for-richer-for-poorer.html">Realtor mother</a> listed our home while our new residence was still an architect's blue-ink rendering. Despite her ambitious asking price, it sold too quickly--its first day on the market--<a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/01/city-girl-country-girl.html">forcing us into an unexpected string of moves</a>. The moves never bothered me, though I tired of scraping paint and pulling carpet tacks from hardwood floors each time another fixer-upper presented an opportunity too good for my parents to bypass. While I relished the adventure, my
sister, Becky, unlike Uncle Paul, hated feeling like a rootless nomad.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rFw9Sm25x-c/TyoTutAaNeI/AAAAAAAAATY/5Tcerf-ek7Q/s1600/gr-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rFw9Sm25x-c/TyoTutAaNeI/AAAAAAAAATY/5Tcerf-ek7Q/s200/gr-4.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Neighbors deemed our vacant lot, <br />
full of Goldenrod, a nuisance. <br />
Courtesy: <a href="http://seasonsflow.wordpress.com/">Seasons Flow</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My
mom would spread the blueprints on the kitchen table, three children peering over her shoulder imagining the rooms that would be theirs. Even as new houses sprung up around our empty lot, the unfurling of the blueprints grew less frequent. Our little piece of earth, a
beautiful field of wildflowers, turned a weedy nuisance--even though it wasn't <i>our</i> lot that had changed. Reported to the city one too many times for allergenic
goldenrod which my dad never found the
time to mow, when a builder made an advantageous offer on what had become the last lot on the street, my parents--realizing the folly of constructing a family home with the kids so nearly grown--sold it. My mom cried all through the closing. The remnants of the dream are a dusty set of blueprints tucked in a coat closet, and a silent shudder when Becky recalls her longing for permanence.<br />
<br />
Once my sister married, she and her husband sought home. Discovering "her" house on the market--the very Cape Cod that inspired my mom's dream to build--Becky and Randy jumped at the chance to buy it. Some people have the knack for turning dreams to reality; my sister is one of them.<br />
<br />
She wanted to be high school valedictorian.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v3hnvLK091w/TyoFR_FOtOI/AAAAAAAAASw/oCQH1f_iWL4/s1600/Scan_Pic0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v3hnvLK091w/TyoFR_FOtOI/AAAAAAAAASw/oCQH1f_iWL4/s320/Scan_Pic0004.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<i>Check. </i><br />
<br />
She wanted to practice veterinary medicine.<br />
<br />
<i>Check.</i><br />
<br />
She wanted to own the house on Yorkshire Drive.<br />
<br />
<i>Check. </i><br />
<br />
And her dream home offered everything inside that it did out: quality, detail, classic beauty--perfection, really--even a Dutch door and a
backyard shuffleboard court. My
sister, distressed by random numbers, appreciated its 1520 address, too.
They put down roots. They planned to stay. She was <i>done</i> moving. <br />
<br />
Or so she thought.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q8rlqvmqtSc/TyoNw_aX0QI/AAAAAAAAAS4/w-2arvPAaII/s1600/Scan_Pic0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q8rlqvmqtSc/TyoNw_aX0QI/AAAAAAAAAS4/w-2arvPAaII/s200/Scan_Pic0003.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Dr. Rebekah De Nooy, holding a patient. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Becky had another dream on her life's bucket list: adopting children. Turned off as an impressionable youth by Karen Grassle's depiction of Caroline Ingalls in labor on<i> </i><i>Little House on the Prairie</i>, Becky vowed she'd never make such a spectacle of herself. She and Randy instead grew their family through international adoption, bringing home a baby girl from Guatemala, followed by another from China. The more she learned about adoption, the dearer the cause grew to her. But I would digress were I to tell you how she came to give up her career as a veterinarian, finding greater purpose throwing herself into the work of the <a href="http://russianorphanlighthouseproject.blogspot.com/">Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project</a>. In the process of finding homes for older orphans, though, she fell in love with a brother and sister, ages six and eight, and knew God meant them to become a part of her family. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-raB-p8vBIes/Tyqcizo0NyI/AAAAAAAAATg/qfsPr8uUIqI/s1600/6806683273_3716d51552.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="203" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-raB-p8vBIes/Tyqcizo0NyI/AAAAAAAAATg/qfsPr8uUIqI/s320/6806683273_3716d51552.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Calin and I were married in Becky's house. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
With four children, they sold their trusty old Geo Prizm (which they <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/01/for-richer-for-poorer.html">paid $250 for and sold for $300</a> after driving it four years without a single breakdown--yes, she is my sister, after all), trading up to a mini van. But that was just a vehicle. They needed to sell their home, too, to gain more space to accommodate twice as many children, room to homeschool, and an office for <a href="http://www.homes.org/agent/hudsonville-mi/randal-denooy">Randy's new career in real estate</a>. Despite their house's considerable charm, it lacked in size. We all felt sad to see it pass to other hands. My husband and I, content with a small wedding, had married in that house. I often think how I'd like just one more peek inside. But my sister won't even travel the street it's on, fearing she cannot suffer the sight if it has gone downhill. If ever she must pass, she vows to avert her eyes.<span id="goog_118063250"></span><span id="goog_118063251"></span><br />
<br />
But her work with the Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project brings her face to face with a reality far more grievous than a distressed property: teens, with little hope for the future, pushed out at a certain age to the Russian streets, where prostitution, gangs, drug use,
hopelessness, and suicide often await. She could look away--it's what most of us do--yet she cannot, striving tirelessly to help forgotten children fulfill a dream none should even need to have--the dream of a permanent home. Not the bricks and mortar kind like my sister<i> </i>so desperately wanted, but the flesh and blood kind, like she already had.<br />
<br />
Becky uses the get-it-done grit that made her <i>own</i> dreams achievable to help Russia's older orphans fulfill the most basic of theirs. The obstacles are fierce: cost, fear, awareness, willingness. But she keeps trying and trusting, rejoicing in the successes, while mourning each failure when a child in need--a child with much to offer--ages out of the orphanage, with no family and nowhere to go. Despite her efforts, not every dream comes true--not even for my sister.<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/UrNouANHDFE?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
But it has for Daria, who, four months before aging out at age 16, found a family. And it has for 85 other children my sister has helped--children with health challenges, children in sibling groups too large to interest the typical adoptive family. Indeed, any child no longer a baby or toddler faces crushing odds. <br />
<br />
I'm very proud of Becky--not for topping her large high school class, or making it through grueling veterinary school, or owning the perfect home--but for making God's command to help orphans her command, and making the pie-in-the-sky dreams of the hopeless her dream.<br />
<br />
And because she won't give up--not until everyone is home. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project brings American tourists to Moscow to visit with older Russian orphans in 5-day sightseeing trips. Whether adoption interests you or you simply want to show an orphan you care, you are welcome to join the adventure. The next trip is planned for </span><a href="http://russianorphanlighthouseproject.blogspot.com/2011/12/kids-for-january-30-february-6-russia.html"><span class="fbLongBlurb">February 5-12, 2013</span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> with additional trips throughout the year. In 2010, the latest year for which statistics are available, the Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project found homes for 55% of the teenagers adopted to the USA from Russia. Find out more about the Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project on my sister's blog: <a href="http://russianorphanlighthouseproject.blogspot.com/">RussianOrphanLighthouseProject.blogspot.com</a>, and on the Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Russian-Orphan-Lighthouse-Project/152122967230">Facebook page</a>. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-88850654698651954242012-01-23T17:46:00.000-05:002013-03-21T20:01:25.554-04:00Dear Marge,<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I was unsurprised to read in Friday's <i>Grand Rapids Press</i> that your shop, <a href="http://www.margesdonutden.com/about.php" target="_blank">Marge's Donut Den</a>, made the list of finalists for the <a href="http://www.celebratedservice.com/vote/" target="_blank">Celebrated Service Award</a>. </div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.margesdonutden.com/wp-content/themes/legourmet/library/tools/timthumb.php?src=http://www.margesdonutden.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/IMAG0682.jpg&w=280&h=280" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.margesdonutden.com/wp-content/themes/legourmet/library/tools/timthumb.php?src=http://www.margesdonutden.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/IMAG0682.jpg&w=280&h=280" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Marge's Donut Den enjoys a faithful clientele. <br />
Courtesy: <a href="http://www.margesdonutden.com/" target="_blank">Marge's Donut Den</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQXvqMpVXNjPo3AZ82yOBFOP7fZlKaUVudGkjlxPjab0UsB4YZNyw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQXvqMpVXNjPo3AZ82yOBFOP7fZlKaUVudGkjlxPjab0UsB4YZNyw" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
My natural inclination toward frugality only allows a donut when the neon Krispy Kreme sign beckons with the offer of a free one. I haven't partaken in ages, though, because five bites of pleasure fail to outweigh the embarrassment of taking the freebie without further purchase, violating some unnamed principle of thrift. Despite rarely eating anything I haven't bought in bulk and cooked in my own kitchen, I visited your shop a couple of years back, discovering that your donuts shame Krispy Kreme's, in both size and taste.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
In 2009, a friend received a diagnosis of terminal cancer. Pam sold online, specializing in American Girl dolls. American Girl on clearance means an item's imminent retirement. So, each year she'd purchase discontinued goods at a steep discount, storing them to resell at Christmastime when demand peaked. Pam stayed home with her girls. Selling on eBay made a great home business, and supported her daughters' American Girl doll habit. </div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G5TFrXX7xtA/Tv4agBx3E3I/AAAAAAAAAPM/nwi8PatN1gU/s200/6620_1114106291346_1187582613_30306105_4671134_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G5TFrXX7xtA/Tv4agBx3E3I/AAAAAAAAAPM/nwi8PatN1gU/s200/6620_1114106291346_1187582613_30306105_4671134_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wrote about Pam in a <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/12/tinful-of-memories.html" target="_blank">recent blog post</a>. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Whenever I'd see Pam at church, we'd catch up, often recounting recent bargains (Pam loved <a href="http://goodwill.com/">Goodwill.com</a>), and <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/12/tinful-of-memories.html" target="_blank">celebrating notable sales</a> in our online shops. So, when I learned of her diagnosis, making a meal or sending a card didn't spring to mind (I'm horrible about sending cards), but<i> She needs me to sell her things </i>did<i>. </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I picked up a carload of dolls and doll outfits, along with other odds and ends she'd been intending to list, and helped organize her storage room. If I were ill, I doubt I'd want a pity party, and I sensed Pam didn't either, so we went through household detritus, thankful for the attention the task required. I enjoy decluttering, sometimes overreaching my bounds in impassioned attempts to persuade a friend to <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/10/organ-grind.html" target="_blank">part with a worthless bauble</a>. Pam required no coaxing, though, unwilling to burden her husband with the flotsam that had drifted to the corner of the basement.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://img2.etsystatic.com/il_570xN.263630274.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://img2.etsystatic.com/il_570xN.263630274.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/45957095/patchwork-quilt-made-from-your-clothes?utm_source=googleproduct&utm_medium=syndication&utm_campaign=GPS" target="_blank">Custom baby clothes quilt</a>, <br />
available on Etsy from another<br />
seller. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Pam opened a giant Rubbermaid tote and fingered a baby outfit, remarking wistfully, "I planned to make a quilt from Ava's things, but now I'll never get to." We both cried. Our church had a quilting group, and a few phone calls found a sweet woman--aptly named Sugar--eager to tackle the project that Pam could not. People from <a href="http://www.lagrave.org/" target="_blank">church</a> brought meals, took the girls to music lessons, prayed, and supported the family in myriad ways. A line from a sermon that touched me deeply shortly after learning of my own son's autism diagnosis comforted Pam, too: "This is <i>not</i> all there is." Yet, even if there were no hope of the resurrection, the loving embrace of a church family in a time of need is no small matter.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://static.panoramio.com/photos/original/4212997.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://static.panoramio.com/photos/original/4212997.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">My and Pam's church, <a href="http://www.lagrave.org/" target="_blank">LaGrave CRC</a> <br />
in downtown, Grand Rapids. Courtesy: <a href="http://panoramio.com/"><br />Panoramio.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
But Marge, what you did was no small matter, either. </div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
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I administered Pam's eBay account, but, overwhelmed by the number of American Girl Bitty Baby outfits and despairing they might not all sell online before Christmas, I cast my net wider, placing a free ad in the <i>Grand Rapids Press</i>. But the first caller wanted a doll, not just an outfit. And I received just one other inquiry, and that was from you, Marge, also wanting a complete doll for your granddaughter. When I explained my motive for selling, you asked, "How many outfits do you have?" Then, undeterred by the quantity, offered, "Take them down to Marge's Donut Den. I'll buy them all." You hadn't even wanted one outfit, let alone a whole pile of them.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<a href="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3271/3053187968_34ba99ae02_s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3271/3053187968_34ba99ae02_s.jpg" /></a>So my friend Tammy and I headed to your shop with the outfits, stopping at every thrift store on the way (I like to combine trips, and always need more inventory for my <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch" target="_blank">vintage kitchenwares shop</a>). You were gone, so your sister called you to authorize the purchase. Along with the payment, you had her include two gift certificates. While we waited, we enjoyed free donuts your sister proffered. We didn't feel embarrassed to get <i>these</i> freebies, however. While Krispy Kreme offers gimmicky bait with the expectation you'll take a dozen home, or at least buy a coffee, you treated us as if we had done you a favor, not the other way around. </div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT9LfnNLCdbuN74WGJ6F44j_tp1wfdfBkNvwX21kfqIhReH5fXa" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT9LfnNLCdbuN74WGJ6F44j_tp1wfdfBkNvwX21kfqIhReH5fXa" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Courtesy: <a href="http://womenslifestyle.com/celebration-cinema-recognizes-outstanding-customer-service-with-celebrated-service-awards/" target="_blank">Women's Lifestyle</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Torn between wanting Pam to know you cared and not wanting her to feel like a charity case, I opted not to tell her why you bought all the outfits. She appreciated the gift certificates, and insisted I keep one. A few months later, <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/army-buddies.html" target="_blank">Tammy and I</a> made another thrift store run, picking up a dozen donuts with the gift certificate en route. I don't want to admit how many we ate (I really love apple fritters), but, while we savored them in the parking lot of the <a href="http://thenonconsumeradvocate.com/2011/12/goodwill-success-minimalism-fail/" target="_blank">Goodwill Outlet</a>, a life-worn man loaded his purchases into the bed of a rusty pickup. I rolled down my window. "Would you like a donut?" </div>
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<br /></div>
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Perhaps donuts engender trust. After all, <i>you</i> believed my story about the outfits, enough to spend quite a bit to bless someone you didn't even know, and the man in the parking lot threw caution to the wind, eating a donut from a pair of strangers.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<a href="http://margesdonutden.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/image004-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://margesdonutden.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/image004-11.jpg" /></a>I really hope, Marge, that Marge's Donut Den wins the contest. I've read on the Celebrated Service Award website testimonials from others whom you have helped, and I'm sure my story won't surprise your regulars. You inspire me to give my best to my own customers, and even to those who may never spend a dime.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm more of a procrastinator than a card writer, which I realize is a poor excuse. But here's my shamefully belated thank-you. Pam thought perhaps you were crazy, buying all those outfits. When you're so giving that people wonder, it speaks volumes. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I don't know if big donuts make big hearts, or if big hearts make big donuts, but there must be a correlation. There <i>must.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Love,</div>
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<br /></div>
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Laura</div>
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<br /></div>
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P.S. I'm asking everyone to vote for <a href="http://margesdonutden.com/blog/" target="_blank">Marge's Donut Den</a> for the <a href="http://www.celebratedservice.com/vote/" target="_blank">Celebrated Service Award</a>. I can't imagine anyone deserving it more than you.
</div>
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com17Wyoming, MI, USA42.9133602 -85.705308542.8668432 -85.7842725 42.9598772 -85.6263445tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-22123732419015719992012-01-15T17:32:00.000-05:002016-08-09T00:01:10.679-04:00For Richer, For Poorer<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rBdIzxLHPiQ/TxHF563eaEI/AAAAAAAAARw/_QHIwM3ClkU/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rBdIzxLHPiQ/TxHF563eaEI/AAAAAAAAARw/_QHIwM3ClkU/s200/images.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Mom favored character-filled houses <br />
needing a little TLC. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The child of a Realtor who didn't believe in day care, I visited many houses in my formative years. Sometimes I'd stay in the car, bickering with siblings, singing, reading, or inventing playful limericks; sometimes I'd play the junior agent.<br />
<br />
My mom catered to the down-to-earth, homeschooling types; few others would tolerate her entourage of children. While she sacrificed the more lucrative clients, my mom ingratiated herself to others, many whom she still considers friends. Some of them even attended my wedding.<br />
<br />
Touring houses with a frugal mother and equally frugal buyers, I developed an eye for latent possibilities in properties others would pan as '<a href="http://retrorenovation.com/2012/01/11/timeless-kitchen-and-bathroom-designn-kitchens-and-bathrooms/" target="_blank">dated</a>' or 'dirty.' And upon discovering a house <a href="http://retrorenovation.com/category/kitchen/10-best-kitchen/" target="_blank">full of vintage character</a>, if we had opted to wait in the car, Mom would call us in to admire the natural woodwork, built-ins, or original retro kitchen.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ztYga1K2RxQ/TxHAO37fGPI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/N0EFOXBzPvA/s1600/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ztYga1K2RxQ/TxHAO37fGPI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/N0EFOXBzPvA/s200/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+014.JPG" width="166" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Being a professional bassoonist was my <br />
top career choice, though I would've <br />
settled for selling real estate. Somehow I <br />
ended up <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank">selling vintage kitchenwares</a> instead.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
As a youngster, I might've been an agent myself. I'd peruse the day's new real estate listing cards, setting aside those I deemed especially well-priced. My mom required that I answer the phone, "Shilto residence, Laura speaking," which felt embarrassingly grown-up; but before acquiring our first <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-KJV9QsT8rc&feature=g-upl&context=G2d7433fAUAAAAAAAnAA" target="_blank">answering machine</a>, I fastidiously took client messages, sometimes attending to simpler queries. In high school, while my band director tried to dissuade me from a bassoon performance major, I balked, figuring I would sell real estate if my music career faltered.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0MFiF0MyM3E/TxHAvysfikI/AAAAAAAAARA/eO6mN2qMKIU/s1600/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+009.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0MFiF0MyM3E/TxHAvysfikI/AAAAAAAAARA/eO6mN2qMKIU/s200/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+009.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calin and I, in front of the Eliminator, about to<br />
leave Michigan for Omaha. I wish the photo <br />
showed the pinstripes and "Eliminator" decal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/swimming-in-satisfaction.html" target="_blank">landed a performing job</a>, though. With ink still wet on both bachelor of music diploma and marriage certificate, my hard-won position as bassoonist in the Omaha Symphony took me and my new husband to Nebraska. We arrived in a pickup truck borrowed from my parents: a small Chevy S-10 emblazoned "Eliminator," over a flourish of zig-zaggy pinstripes. It overflowed with all our possessions, covered in a big blue tarp secured with clothesline. (Fifteen years later, my dad still drives the Eliminator, though the doors are about to rust off. They would've already, had he not jerry-rigged the hinge with a wind chime). <br />
<br />
If showy rock stars occupy one end of the musical genre and wage spectrum, classical musicians in regional orchestras crowd the other. This didn't discount home ownership, though--not for the resourceful daughter of a real estate agent. We house-hunted in a fashion learned from Mom and her thrifty clients. Our Omaha agent spent the first day showing bi-levels in suburbia. We had to set her straight, knowing our preferred aesthetic more likely involved estate properties on city lots rather than newish houses with fake stone façades and particle board cabinetry.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PGwzSZUP0JA/TxHCF0UKp3I/AAAAAAAAARI/5pOg5YCeU_o/s1600/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PGwzSZUP0JA/TxHCF0UKp3I/AAAAAAAAARI/5pOg5YCeU_o/s200/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+013.JPG" width="146" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Calin scrapes petrified carpet <br />
padding off the floor, after having <br />
removed the green shag carpet. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Having moved to the city with our lives' possessions and nowhere to go, we experienced homelessness, but without the stigma. We needed an inexpensive fixer-upper--preferably with a mother-in-law unit to help cover mortgage payments. In a two-day whirlwind of showings, we settled upon a house that Thelma's heirs itched to unload, one with a tiny upstairs apartment boasting a separate entrance. Though the two-toned shag carpet in the living room begged removal, I loved the 1940s chrome-trimmed range with built-in tick-tock timer, and bathroom featuring clawfoot tub and never-say-die linoleum.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4vOt-Xf5_4E/TxHCdGV08GI/AAAAAAAAARQ/QHIdlsA6BhY/s1600/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4vOt-Xf5_4E/TxHCdGV08GI/AAAAAAAAARQ/QHIdlsA6BhY/s200/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+003.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enjoying a meal at the A-Ford-O Motel. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unable to close immediately, we lodged at the <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g29377-d479078-r22153397-A_Ford_O_Motel-Atlantic_Iowa.html#CHECK_RATES_CONT" target="_blank">A-Ford-O Motel</a>. Judging from the motley furnishings, owners Tom and Rita Ford valued thrift over fashion for their roadside inn. We enjoyed satisfactory in-room meals, considering the limitations of our <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch/search?search_query=sunbeam+electric+skillet&search_submit=&search_type=user_shop_ttt_id_6262900&shopname=LaurasLastDitch&langid_override=-1" target="_blank">vintage Sunbeam electric skillet</a>, avoiding restaurants that would've drained our scant resources. For entertainment, Tom Ford offered free video rentals from the motel office. The <i>Field of Dreams</i> VHS cassette we borrowed still bore its garage sale price tag.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mnWJ8CLSeuE/TxHCz37zNPI/AAAAAAAAARY/I_FrErWESVw/s1600/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mnWJ8CLSeuE/TxHCz37zNPI/AAAAAAAAARY/I_FrErWESVw/s200/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+004.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Calin futilely attempts rust removal <br />
on our ugly Chevy Celebrity. This<br />
photo does not do the car justice. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My mom drove the Eliminator back to Grand Rapids; we car shopped. A Chevy Celebrity for $700 promised more than it delivered. As I balked at the smell of stale tobacco smoke, sagging headliner, bad stabilizer bar, and a spot near the headlight callously broken to create easier bulb access, the car's owner adjusted the price gradually downward, determined to turn looker into buyer. I drove the over-loud eyesore four years, without a single breakdown. Though its ugliness once provoked the question, "Was your car vandalized?," I loved the old Chevy. I sold it to one of my bassoon students when we moved back to Michigan, for a mere $50 less than the $450 we had paid. What it lacked in aesthetics, it boasted in reliability, besting the so-called "good car" we received as a wedding gift.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Po3RuXQDJSg/TxHEm5R3oEI/AAAAAAAAARo/_CVHmF_mFco/s1600/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Po3RuXQDJSg/TxHEm5R3oEI/AAAAAAAAARo/_CVHmF_mFco/s200/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+010.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">I and my Heckel bassoon enjoy a meal in <br />
our retro kitchen. This photo graced a page<br />
of the Omaha Symphony cookbook. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Even in the cheap motel, cooking out of an old electric frying pan; in our fixer-upper house, baking in a vintage 1940s range; or navigating the grid-like streets of Omaha in a humble Chevy which could dethrone the ugliest car in almost any lot, those were happy, hopeful times. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0KZaJfm2F20/TxHDJjcv7lI/AAAAAAAAARg/AD1Krfq3jZI/s1600/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0KZaJfm2F20/TxHDJjcv7lI/AAAAAAAAARg/AD1Krfq3jZI/s200/2007-06-16+001+2007-06-16+012.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Leaving our house for the last time,<br />
ready to<a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/swimming-in-satisfaction.html" target="_blank"> move back to Michigan</a>. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I learned what's nice. It's not room service at the Marriot, or a new McMansion with <a href="http://thenonconsumeradvocate.com/2012/01/are-your-expensive-purchases-weighing-you-down/" target="_blank">stainless Viking appliances</a>. It isn't a shiny Audi with heated leather seats. Niceness to me is durability, wrapped in <a href="http://www.facebook.com/TightwadGazetteFanClub" target="_blank">thrift</a>, adorned with humility--just like a rusty Celebrity that refuses to give up; antique linoleum that celebrated its dodranscentennial before <i>we</i> ever arrived; a motel that loans garage sale videos, daring its guests to dream big; or a little old bungalow that housed two newlyweds, leaving them richer when they sold it--in dollars, in memories, and in thankfulness. And enjoying, like so many of my mom's dear clients, unpretentious blessings with someone you trust--for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer--without a Jones in sight. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">But godliness with contentment is great gain. 1Timothy 6:6</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">He is rich who has few wants.--proverb</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Next up: A post my sister deemed to personal for my blog, but it struck a chord with readers: <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/01/city-girl-country-girl.html" target="_blank">City Girl, Country Girl </a></span><br />
<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-67458068490624845062012-01-05T21:30:00.000-05:002014-06-07T22:41:45.216-04:00City Girl, Country GirlEntering the building for the first time, I tripped, dropping the pencil case I had fashioned from a watercolor paint box. Clearly an inauspicious start to fifth grade, my hopes to be as popular at the new school as I was <i>un</i>popular at the last were dashed, along with my No. 2 pencils.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XL52obNGxR4/TwX8MKtCF1I/AAAAAAAAAPw/CYsvZ7uAL7o/s1600/cbk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XL52obNGxR4/TwX8MKtCF1I/AAAAAAAAAPw/CYsvZ7uAL7o/s200/cbk.jpg" height="118" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">The fixer-upper we bought when I was a <br />
kid. It looks like it could stand to be fixed <br />
up again.Courtesy: <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=o3t&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&q=2542+raymond+ave+grand+rapids&gs_upl=1475l4460l1l4546l16l11l0l0l0l0l589l2889l0.1.6.2.0.1l10l0&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_cp.,cf.osb&biw=1299&bih=644&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=4_kFT7eDJaWrsQKI2bWQCg&sa=X&oi=mode_link&ct=mode&cd=3&ved=0CDAQ_AUoAg" target="_blank">Google Maps</a>. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My parents chose the school for its status as the cheapest private school in the area. We drove from city, through suburb, to country to get there. We planned to build a house, but <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/02/dreaming-of-home.html" target="_blank">when our home sold too quickly, we purchased a fixer-upper in a hurry</a>--a house chosen for its money-making potential rather than its excellent public school system. <br />
<br />
Shy in social situations, I found making friends difficult. So I sat on the step at recess, secretly annoyed that they recited the jump-roping chant wrong, yet longing for an invitation to join in. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn0.wn.com/pd/45/b4/1b110dc22a272ab0fc7abd87b72e_grande.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://cdn0.wn.com/pd/45/b4/1b110dc22a272ab0fc7abd87b72e_grande.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Manure, just right for pelting your <br />
friend. Courtesy: <a href="http://johnny-the-great.newsvine.com/">Newsvine.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Johnna took initiative, and I accepted an invite to her dairy farm. Mortified by her proposal of a manure fight, I declined to participate. Only as an adult, scooping manure to fertilize our garden--and paying fifty cents per bucket for the privilege--did I realize she wasn't referring to fresh manure, but rather, the composted variety--clumped grass bits bound with what looks like dirt.<br />
<br />
The following Monday, Johnna reported the social faux pas. My city ways didn't pass muster. Ostracized for refusing to sling cow dung, years later, my dad put it into perspective: While teaching, he heard of a kid, taunted, because his firefighter dad perished in a blaze. I won't repeat the wording, lest it haunt you as it has me. As I recall my first year at the new school, I shed no tears. But I weep inside for a boy, who, in his moment of greatest need, experienced cruelty rather than compassion. <br />
<br />
My fifth grade teacher (I could inject "bless his heart" here, but won't) took me out of class one day, a few weeks into the school year. The aide admonished my classmates to include me while the teacher assured me that Lisa would be my recess playmate. She was--for a few days. Walking back into the classroom following the 'be-nice-to-Laura' lecture remains my life's most humiliating moment. That the teachers were trying to help provided little salve for my embarrassment. I chose to homeschool, partially, because of my experience. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jihm84pmYaA/TwYEmdpfTVI/AAAAAAAAAQI/EWVNQAHMGQA/s1600/DSCF8272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jihm84pmYaA/TwYEmdpfTVI/AAAAAAAAAQI/EWVNQAHMGQA/s200/DSCF8272.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Our back yard. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For years, I replayed this in my mind. As an adult, I live just a few blocks from the Raymond Avenue house where I resided while attending the country school. I love <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/03/on-walsh-street.html" target="_blank">my neighborhood</a>, and hope never to leave. We have an extra half lot, cultivating more garden than grass. When people ask, their eyes glaze over before I'm half-done reciting all the herbs, vegetables, and fruit we grow. We pickle, dehydrate, can, freeze, brew vinegar and beer, make wine from our own grapes, cook everything from scratch, compost, <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/12/wowed.html" target="_blank">forage</a>, and--aside from being poultry-free--run what might be considered an urban homestead. We buy raw milk, farm-fresh eggs and local honey. I keep meaning to learn soap- and cheese-making.<br />
<br />
Recently I googled Johnna. She runs an <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank">online store, like I do</a>. She's a homesteader. She teaches classes on making cheese and soap, and foraging wild herbs. She homeschools.<br />
<br />
Oh, my. She could be my friend.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-soEu94b7lxc/TwZUebaY8lI/AAAAAAAAAQs/WsGaVhevmzw/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-soEu94b7lxc/TwZUebaY8lI/AAAAAAAAAQs/WsGaVhevmzw/s200/images.jpg" height="200" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Here's Johnna. Doggonit, I even owned <br />
the same dress. Courtesy: <a href="http://publicradio.org/">Publicradio.org</a>. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mxHPLbl_snU/TwX8CmW7HtI/AAAAAAAAAPk/GYpEu3tyF1A/s1600/38523_1453122682791_1075012781_31298171_8118324_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mxHPLbl_snU/TwX8CmW7HtI/AAAAAAAAAPk/GYpEu3tyF1A/s200/38523_1453122682791_1075012781_31298171_8118324_n.jpg" height="191" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Here I am, picking blueberries.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If only I had more initiative, I'd pick up the phone. Maybe it's not too late to have that manure fight.<br />
<br />
But I know myself too well. I still bear the social reticence that kept me a fifth grade outsider. So I'll pick up my No. 2 pencil instead, and write how I now realize perhaps Johnna and I are more alike than different. The city girl can befriend the country girl.<br />
<br />
Children grow up, and time turns manure into soil.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Next up: </span><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">An unlikely piece of '80s nostalgia brings back more memories than you can imagine: <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/12/tinful-of-memories.html" target="_blank"><i>A Tinful of Memories</i></a></span></span></span><br />
<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com9Grand Rapids, MI, USA42.9633599 -85.668086342.8704019 -85.8260148 43.0563179 -85.5101578tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-48922790590997510102012-01-03T01:02:00.000-05:002012-01-15T19:50:20.960-05:00Giveaway for "The Complete Tightwad Gazette"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TBapdOXWYh0/TwJ_vsBhw_I/AAAAAAAAAPY/P80TQYyFR0o/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TBapdOXWYh0/TwJ_vsBhw_I/AAAAAAAAAPY/P80TQYyFR0o/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></div>
Today my <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/mooned-in-parking-lot.html" target="_blank">dad</a> and I went to several antique malls and thrift stores. I spent most of my time looking for <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank">vintage kitchenwares</a>, but when I saw the blue binding of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s?ie=UTF8&x=0&ref_=nb_sb_noss&y=0&field-keywords=tightwad%20gazette&url=search-alias%3Daps&_encoding=UTF8&tag=lauraslastdad-20&linkCode=ur2&camp=1789&creative=390957" target="_blank"><i>The Complete Tightwad Gazette</i></a> by Amy Dacyczyn as I walked down the aisle, I swooped in and nabbed it--just so I can give it away!<br />
<br />
Here are the giveaway rules:<br />
<br />
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<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-23261783774489771982011-12-31T10:50:00.000-05:002012-03-23T23:48:08.319-04:00A Tinful of Memories<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--NEUAANpxRE/Ttbc1vYR3RI/AAAAAAAAC5U/fAHCMBXu2TE/s1600/Big+Lots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="172" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--NEUAANpxRE/Ttbc1vYR3RI/AAAAAAAAC5U/fAHCMBXu2TE/s200/Big+Lots.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Courtesy: <a href="http://danielebrady.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Brady's Bunch</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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. <br />
<br />
When I first shopped <a href="http://www.biglots.com/" target="_blank">Big Lots</a>, 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. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TC-Tww1ABQ4/Tv4RoAbSezI/AAAAAAAAAO0/hYWOo3KN19c/s1600/2007-05-05+001+2007-05-05+009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TC-Tww1ABQ4/Tv4RoAbSezI/AAAAAAAAAO0/hYWOo3KN19c/s200/2007-05-05+001+2007-05-05+009.JPG" width="199" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">My last Lip Lickers Lip Balm tin, which I <br />
thought about selling at<a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank"> Laura's Last Ditch</a>,<br />
though, ultimately, I changed my mind.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://www.etsy.com/teams/6269/vintage-etsy-society-street-team/discuss/9241171/" target="_blank">people buy the strangest things</a>. 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='160' height='133' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/wlyAKXIFiBE?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Pam loved the tale of the lip balm tin. To this day, when I first meet someone who knew her, I'm greeted with, "<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5780374653508040931#editor/target=post;postID=6801432322962276770" target="_blank">So <i>you're</i> the one who</a> 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. <br />
<br />
<span id="goog_1013855746"></span><span id="goog_1013855747"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G5TFrXX7xtA/Tv4agBx3E3I/AAAAAAAAAPM/nwi8PatN1gU/s1600/6620_1114106291346_1187582613_30306105_4671134_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G5TFrXX7xtA/Tv4agBx3E3I/AAAAAAAAAPM/nwi8PatN1gU/s200/6620_1114106291346_1187582613_30306105_4671134_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">My friend, Pam. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I think of middle school, I recall my desktop candy and lip balm shop, but mostly I remember <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/01/city-girl-country-girl.html" target="_blank">not fitting in</a>. 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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
It's full of memories.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Next up: Ridiculed for my frugality, I've concluded, </span><a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/12/used-to-quality.html" target="_blank"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Blessed are the Thrifty</span></i></a><span style="font-size: x-small;">. </span><br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-51176345976642232072011-12-24T14:20:00.000-05:002012-07-03T23:38:00.393-04:00Blessed are the ThriftyI know how to <a href="http://www.mlive.com/food/index.ssf/2009/03/creative_and_resourceful_grand.html" target="_blank">pinch a penny</a>. I've been thrifty long enough, I recall the ridicule in middle school because of it.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QGg5jQm9xjo/TvTspIfbNWI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/aDi5cn76w1k/s1600/The-Complete-Tightwad-Gazette-Dacyczyn-Amy-9780375752254.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QGg5jQm9xjo/TvTspIfbNWI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/aDi5cn76w1k/s200/The-Complete-Tightwad-Gazette-Dacyczyn-Amy-9780375752254.jpg" width="157" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/s?ie=UTF8&x=0&ref_=nb_sb_noss&y=0&field-keywords=tightwad%20gazette&url=search-alias%3Daps&_encoding=UTF8&tag=lauraslastdad-20&linkCode=ur2&camp=1789&creative=390957">The Tightwad Gazette</a>. I can't <br />
recommend it highly enough. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Several years ago, my brother's mother-in-law recommended <i>The Tightwad Gazette</i> 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 <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s?ie=UTF8&x=0&ref_=nb_sb_noss&y=0&field-keywords=tightwad%20gazette&url=search-alias%3Daps&_encoding=UTF8&tag=lauraslastdad-20&linkCode=ur2&camp=1789&creative=390957" target="_blank"><i>The Tightwad Gazette</i></a> 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 <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s?ie=UTF8&x=0&ref_=nb_sb_noss&y=0&field-keywords=tightwad%20gazette&url=search-alias%3Daps&_encoding=UTF8&tag=lauraslastdad-20&linkCode=ur2&camp=1789&creative=390957" target="_blank"><i>The Tightwad Gazette</i></a> 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. <br />
<br />
Yet I didn't eschew the Kohl's clearance racks entirely<b>;</b> 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. <br />
<br />
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<i> brand</i> new!" started to irk me.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a_3tlozx3pU/TvTsTnbGWeI/AAAAAAAAAOE/0PMHhfijClQ/s1600/il_fullxfull.262542240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="158" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a_3tlozx3pU/TvTsTnbGWeI/AAAAAAAAAOE/0PMHhfijClQ/s200/il_fullxfull.262542240.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch?section_id=8148673">quality vintage cookware</a>. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Used items have undergone rigorous quality testing. If the <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch?section_id=7957468" target="_blank">clothing</a> 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 <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch?section_id=8148673" target="_blank">pot</a> 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 <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch/search?search_query=recipes&search_submit=&search_type=user_shop_ttt_id_6262900&shopname=LaurasLastDitch">recipes</a>. <br />
<br />
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 "<a href="http://www.etsy.com/people/lauraslastditch?ref=si_pr" target="_blank">no user-serviceable parts</a>," it's likely to be repairable. When a new item bites the dust, I'm left with not only a fuller <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/84417925/vintage-waste-basket-pfaltzgraff-village?ga_search_query=trash&ga_search_type=user_shop_ttt_id_6262900" target="_blank">trash can</a>, but the improvident feeling of pure, unadulterated waste--money and resources squandered in equal measure. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XTfCYlyM2zM/TvTtKgz0l0I/AAAAAAAAAOc/d0GQHjGD918/s1600/lauras-last-ditch-etsy-large.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="42" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XTfCYlyM2zM/TvTtKgz0l0I/AAAAAAAAAOc/d0GQHjGD918/s320/lauras-last-ditch-etsy-large.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">I'm glad some people appreciate quality vintage items,<br />
or my shop, <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/">Laura's Last Ditch</a>, would be out of business. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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 <a href="http://www.etsy.com/people/lauraslastditch">small business owner such as I</a>, 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. <br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/army-buddies.html" target="_blank">amusing unpredictability of thrift stores</a>.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images1.vat19.com/openit/openit-open-blister-packs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://images1.vat19.com/openit/openit-open-blister-packs.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">You know packaging is bad when they <br />
sell a <a href="http://www.vat19.com/dvds/openit-plastic-blister-packaging-opener.cfm">tool</a> just to open it. Instead of buying<br />
Open It!, I vote to avoid packaging altogether. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
With myriad reasons to purchase secondhand, it's no wonder "It's <i>brand new</i>!" 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. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1Qj-kV_1NYk/TvUjZJcCxBI/AAAAAAAAAOo/vWsFrxMOKhI/s1600/402597_2817146271557_1345875666_2953484_890967772_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1Qj-kV_1NYk/TvUjZJcCxBI/AAAAAAAAAOo/vWsFrxMOKhI/s320/402597_2817146271557_1345875666_2953484_890967772_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">My new ad for <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank">Laura's Last Ditch</a>, <br />
celebrating vintage quality. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Do you shop secondhand, or do typical stores still tempt you? As a new year dawns, consider joining "<a href="http://thenonconsumeradvocate.com/2009/10/a-compact-chat/" target="_blank">The Compact</a>," or simply commit to avoiding recreational shopping, choosing used instead. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Those middle school friends who ridiculed my frugal ways had a point: thrift <i>can</i> be ridiculous. Ridiculously good.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Next: When my 83-year-old grandma receives her first computer as a surprise birthday gift, she's not the only one <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/12/wowed.html" target="_blank">Wowed</a></span>.<br />
<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-79999467794936781702011-12-08T00:19:00.012-05:002016-07-23T09:39:15.125-04:00WowedI'm a late adopter of technology.
As I successfully google obscurities such as "How to make soap from raccoon fat," or soak up rare video footage of Fritz Wunderlich--my favorite classical singer, dead 50 years--I marvel at the Internet. Submitting to its many charms, I feign productivity, wishing I inclined as naturally to stewardship of hours and minutes as I do to dollars and cents.
<br />
While others debate the relative merits of iPhones versus Androids, I have barely an inkling what they do. A BlackBerry, to me, ripens mid-June, along a forest's southern faces, waiting to be plucked into my upcycled tin can bucket. Among the rapidly dwindling ten percent of Americans lacking a mobile phone, I cling to a bare-bones landline; call me, and--without the benefit of voicemail or call waiting--you may hear an anachronistic busy signal or endless ringing. I resisted home Internet access until my online business, <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch" target="_blank">Laura's Last Ditch</a>, outgrew the public library's computer lab.
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mywowcomputer.com/images/WowComputer-black-silho_2367.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://www.mywowcomputer.com/images/WowComputer-black-silho_2367.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A <a href="http://www.mywowcomputer.com/" target="_blank">WOW! Computer</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My grandma, too, resisted the digital age. On Thanksgiving day, she scarcely noticed the oversized computer monitor atop her vintage metal desk--at Grandma's, parties are BYOT, with 'T' signifying 'Technology.' My mom, well aware of Grandma's technophobic tendencies, lured her into the office, ostensibly to see<a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"> my blog</a>. She spurned the computer, though, until a mere touch to the prominently placed 'plus' icon enlarged the print to a manageable size. No ordinary machine, the AARP magazine advertised this <a href="http://www.mywowcomputer.com/" target="_blank">WOW! Computer</a>, for seniors new to Web navigation. Realizing it belonged to her--a surprise gift--my grandma, from whom I hardly recall a negative word, mustered, "I'm just not sure about this. I try to be a good steward of my time." <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
Nevertheless, the family gathered, sharing favorite YouTube videos: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X9whxWNI7bE" target="_blank">Susan Boyle's stunning TV debut</a>; <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ShbC5yVqOdI" target="_blank">Danny Macaskill's acrobatic bike stunts</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1k08yxu57NA" target="_blank">Paul Potts' touching "Nessun Dorma."</a> We googled 'Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever,' a malady afflicting an honorary grandchild. Growing interested, yet not fully convinced, we signed her up for Facebook. She beheld endearing photos of great-grandchildren in fleeting stages of babyhood, and clips of just-celebrated Thanksgiving dinner at the in-laws'--a virtual family reunion. Won over, my grandmother exclaimed, "Wow! So<i> this</i> is what I've been missing!"<br />
<br />
While pondering the Internet's magnificence, I consider how, some day, when we see Heaven, we, likewise will exclaim, "So<i> this</i> is what we've been missing!" We will see not only the dearly departed, but our Savior, Jesus Christ--no longer through a glass, darkly, but face to face. Take that, Facebook!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f0QFkIaSH_Q/TuA_aGxwbxI/AAAAAAAAAN0/Eoo7ZywCRok/s1600/il_570xN.268824248.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f0QFkIaSH_Q/TuA_aGxwbxI/AAAAAAAAAN0/Eoo7ZywCRok/s200/il_570xN.268824248.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/73477150/jesus-of-nazareth-wall-hanging?ga_search_query=jesus&ga_search_type=user_shop_ttt_id_6262900" target="_blank"><i>Jesus of Nazareth</i>--L. Jambor </a><br />
in my Etsy shop. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Though I enjoy the Internet, perhaps a little<i> too</i> much, I recall my wise grandmother's admonition about stewardship of time, knowing I must answer to the same Jesus for how I've spent mine. I resolve to do better, yet fail miserably, concurring with the apostle Paul: <i>O wretch that I am! who shall deliver me from this <span id="goog_1943201326"></span><span id="goog_1943201327"></span>body of death?</i><br />
<br />
Thank God, the same Jesus, who could condemn us, owns a love more personal than Facebook, wiser than Wikipedia, and vaster than Google.<br />
<br />
WOW!<br />
<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-89639691691172954842011-11-27T13:57:00.005-05:002013-02-26T00:08:56.007-05:00"Army" BuddiesSecondhand shops swap newness for variety. Finding it an advantageous trade, I rarely step inside a "normal" store. I prefer the beautiful and the ugly, the vintage and the modern, the useful and the obsolete, all vying for shelf space; pans like Grandma used for family dinners; hats like Dad wore, and toys GenX-ers remember from childhood. To fully appreciate the thrift store atmosphere, I'll shop with a friend--preferably one possessing a hair-trigger sense of humor.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d_ivmERFMQ0/USxDQR47URI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/Nb1Qu3Qdv3w/s1600/418530_488523587843384_1139157925_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d_ivmERFMQ0/USxDQR47URI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/Nb1Qu3Qdv3w/s1600/418530_488523587843384_1139157925_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">My friend, Tammy. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
For me, that friend is Tammy.<br />
<br />
As we browse, instead of turning to fisticuffs over the same prime merchandise, our division of labor has me taking the kitchenwares for <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch" target="_blank">Laura's Last Ditch</a>, Tammy the hair styling tools for <a href="http://stores.ebay.com/What-ONCE-Was-LOST/Hair-Styling-Tools-/_i.html?_fsub=1492585017&_sid=7226547&_trksid=p4634.c0.m322" target="_blank">What Once Was Lost</a>. Combining business with pleasure, we pause frequently to draw attention to our most chucklesome discoveries. Loud guffaws from the Grand Rapids Salvation Army's aisles may well mean we're shopping.<br />
<br />
My autistic son often shops with us. With "Look at this!" our refrain, he, who utters more echolalia than useful speech, proffers arbitrary finds, mimicking the "Look at this!" he's heard so often from the two of us. When it's a plastic ice cube tray rather than a toy, I am amused, a veteran mom no longer nonplussed by his horrific deficit of meaningful communication.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dlpEYIkIO7Q/TtHQwqz8u3I/AAAAAAAAANk/fJchK-o4wUw/s1600/il_570xN.280619621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dlpEYIkIO7Q/TtHQwqz8u3I/AAAAAAAAANk/fJchK-o4wUw/s200/il_570xN.280619621.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I sold <i><a href="http://www.etsy.com/transaction/63698346" target="_blank">Bridge to Mars</a></i> in<a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch" target="_blank"> my shop</a>. <br />
Tammy convinced me to buy it. It sold <br />
for $40 within a couple of weeks. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Some thrift store merchandise shares a similar dichotomy of horrific yet amusing: a bare-kneed ceramic nativity shepherd, created by an amateur wanting in skill; a shark in a jar of formaldehyde; a <a href="http://www.etsy.com/transaction/63698346" target="_blank">black velvet UFO painting</a> I feel compelled to purchase. When I shop solo and find a tacky gem, I mourn the opportunity to share with Tammy my perverse joy. Regardless, I laugh aloud, semi-consciously hoping a nearby shopper will join my merriment--though no one ever does. <br />
<br />
Just after Christmas 2010, I find a peculiar framed photo of a boar-like creature, an attached brass plaque boasting "Javelina Club Founding Member, 1986." My prolonged gaze weighs the laughs it might receive at next year's white elephant gift exchange against its $4.99 price and a year's storage. I replace it on its hook. Tammy goads me that I "need" it, but I refuse to listen.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aTIaTHUQHzw/TtHRe9Rtr0I/AAAAAAAAANs/B9fR0LCoFOI/s1600/javelina1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="171" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aTIaTHUQHzw/TtHRe9Rtr0I/AAAAAAAAANs/B9fR0LCoFOI/s200/javelina1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A javelina. Courtesy: <a href="http://weswaincott.wordpress.com/2009/10/01/encounters-of-the-javelina/" target="_blank">Wes Swaincott's Short Stories</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Weeks pass, yet I cannot banish the Javelina Club wall hanging from my mind. I resolve to set my usual tightwaddery aside and spring the $4.99, confident I will rescue <i>Javelina Club</i> from humiliating Salvation-Army-reject status. When Tammy and I return, we approach the back wall of our favorite shopping destination we lovingly refer to as "The Army," ready to laugh anew, then consummate the purchase of what will surely be next Christmas's most outlandish gem. But, it's gone. Bereft of my prize, we leave the store. My good friend shares my disappointment.<br />
<br />
Tammy warned me I'd regret not buying it. Nearly a year later, I still, like a fisherman, consider this the one that got away. <br />
<br />
Friends come and go. With my outspokenness, hard-to-suppress bossiness, eccentricity, and social anxiety, crowned with a phobia that makes placing a phone call an occasion for angst, I marvel that I have friends at all; indeed, I have scared off or neglected many throughout my life. So I especially appreciate Tammy, who, accepting of my many quirks and foibles, has taken the bait.<br />
<br />
And I hope not to let <i>this</i> one get away.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">"A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you."<br />
― <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/114059.Elbert_Hubbard" target="_blank">Elbert Hubbard</a></span><br />
<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" src="//www.facebook.com/plugins/like.php?href=http%3A%2F%2Fadventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com%2F&send=false&layout=standard&width=450&show_faces=false&action=like&colorscheme=light&font&height=35&appId=62940928218" style="border: medium none; height: 35px; overflow: hidden; width: 450px;"></iframe><a class="twitter-share-button" data-text="I loved this post at Adventures in Thrift Land" data-url="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/" data-via="LaurasLastDitch" href="https://twitter.com/share">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-9959865271088557232011-11-22T23:16:00.012-05:002016-07-23T09:40:35.171-04:00Mooned in the Parking Lot<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1inX5HvttwA/Tsvnii7_vQI/AAAAAAAAANM/u9hTx2F11E4/s1600/ole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1inX5HvttwA/Tsvnii7_vQI/AAAAAAAAANM/u9hTx2F11E4/s200/ole.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Olé Tacos restaurant in Grand Rapids,<br />
Michigan, now defunct. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We sat in the car at Olé Tacos. My favorite fast food restaurant, I loved its stiff, nearly petrified, refried beans, spread thickly on a tostada shell. Perhaps this foretold that I would someday forswear meat entirely, in favor of a vegetarian diet.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
As we ate, an Asian man, whom my dad pegged as a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOY3Sxe4TeE&feature=related">Moonie</a>, approached our cramped dining room on wheels. Eyeing the children in the back seat, he took a furry little toy from his inventory. Pinching its back, the teddy bear's arms opened, then clung to my dad's collar. My recall lacks. Yet the sheepish look on my father's face and the Moonie's sing-songy couplet remain indelibly etched in my memory: "You like? You buy?" <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://img0.etsystatic.com/il_570xN.310631172.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://img0.etsystatic.com/il_570xN.310631172.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">A clip-on teddy bear like the Moonie <br />
clipped on my dad's collar. For sale<br />
at <a href="http://img0.etsystatic.com/il_570xN.310631172.jpg">Laura's Last Ditch</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My dad's to-the-point reply, eliciting titters from the rear of our Chevy Citation, came in a contrasting near-monotone: "I don't like. I don't buy."<br />
<br />
Advertisers clip teddy bears on our collars daily, tempting us with the same two questions, framed in ways difficult to resist. And, judging from our overflowing closets, cupboards, and garages, it seems most people affirm "You like? You buy" with an emphatic "Yes!"<br />
<br />
I'm not averse to rescuing an occasional <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/75645482/vintage-1960s-clorox-2-bleach-postcard">hard-to-place vintage oddity</a> that would otherwise be tossed; I'd even sell a clip-on koala were I to find one. My goal at <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch">Laura's Last Ditch</a>, though, is to provide practical items people can't find elsewhere, while reducing the number of new products produced--and subsequently thrown away--by offering durable vintage alternatives.That means <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch/search?search_query=kitchen&search_submit=&search_type=user_shop_ttt_id_6262900&shopname=LaurasLastDitch&page=2">vintage kitchenwares</a> in abundance.<br />
<br />
<i>You like? You buy?</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
I certainly hope you like. I certainly hope you buy, or at least someone does. After all, even though Olé Tacos is long defunct, my husband and I virtually never eat out, and our <a href="http://www.mlive.com/food/index.ssf/2009/03/creative_and_resourceful_grand.html">low food bills</a> inspire awe in budding frugalistas, we still have a living to make. Yet, I'd be remiss not to pose a third question, neglected by the follower of <span class="st">Sun Myung Moon</span> who picked the wrong target for his salesmanship in the parking lot nearly 30 years ago.<br />
<br />
<i>You need?</i><br />
<br />
If not, instead of making yet another purchase, take the money you might've spent, and use it to bless another.<br />
<br />
Then, await my affirmation from this side of cyberspace:<br />
<br />
"You don't buy?<i> </i>I like!"<br />
<br />
<i>¡Olé!</i><a class="cssButton" href="javascript:void(0)" id="previewButton" target=""></a><br />
<div class="cssButtonOuter">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Next: <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/walter-1920-2011.html"><i>Walter, 1920-2011</i></a></span></div>
</div>
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-59655188160984203642011-11-21T23:51:00.008-05:002012-03-01T16:19:23.055-05:00Walter, 1920-2011<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://mi-cache.legacy.com/legacy/images/cobrands/grandrapids/Photos/0004289224_20111121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://mi-cache.legacy.com/legacy/images/cobrands/grandrapids/Photos/0004289224_20111121.jpg" width="161" /></a></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zfpyU1mmU4A/Ts1-KHs8EuI/AAAAAAAAANU/tAapUF781Zw/s1600/2007-04-25+002+2007-04-25+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zfpyU1mmU4A/Ts1-KHs8EuI/AAAAAAAAANU/tAapUF781Zw/s200/2007-04-25+002+2007-04-25+002.JPG" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walter used this Polaroid camera <br />
until just recently. He wanted a <br />
picture with our son. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I wrote about our elderly neighbor, <a href="http://www.legacy.com/guestbook/grandrapids/guestbook.aspx?n=walter-dykstra&pid=154708933&cid=full">Walter</a>, in <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/10/treasures-on-earth-treasures-in-heaven.html"><i>Treasures on Earth, Treasures in Heaven</i></a>. He died two days ago. We will miss him. What a wonderful person, ever eager to assist his <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2012/03/on-walsh-street.html" target="_blank">Walsh Street neighbors</a>, and always offering a kind word to our autistic son. May everyone have such a great neighbor; may everyone<i> be</i> such a great neighbor.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Next: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/frosty-arsonist.html"><i>Frosty, Arsonist: The Dark Side of Christmas Knickknacks</i></a> </span><a class="twitter-share-button" data-text="I loved this post at Adventures in Thrift Land" data-url="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/" data-via="LaurasLastDitch" href="https://twitter.com/share">Tweet</a>
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-69524274307165818252011-11-17T09:06:00.012-05:002013-12-21T22:08:24.720-05:00Frosty, Arsonist: The Dark Side of Christmas Knick Knacks<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://media.mlive.com/grpress/news_impact/photo/10255626-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://media.mlive.com/grpress/news_impact/photo/10255626-large.jpg" width="166" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frosty: Not so cute when <br />
he starts your house on <br />
fire. Courtesy: <a href="http://www.mlive.com/">MLive</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Perhaps <i>black</i> magic was in that old silk hat they found.<br />
<br />
Recently I read of a giant <a href="http://www.mlive.com/news/grand-rapids/index.ssf/2011/11/snowman_snow_globe_sparked_18.html">snowman snowglobe that, refracting sunlight onto nearby combustibles, caused $1.8 million fire damage</a> to a Michigan couple's home. With no injuries, we detachedly titter at this "can-you-believe-it?" occurrence. The $100 snowman snowglobe proved less than festive.<br />
<br />
Merchandise-gathering for my shop, <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaurasLastDitch">Laura's Last Ditch</a>, draws me to thrift stores, shelves a-burst with snowman decorations and their compatriots: ceramic Santas with elfin helpers, flocked reindeer figurines, angry Grinch ornaments, plush teddies sporting cheaply knit sweaters. <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/10/organ-grind.html">I hurry</a> to more practical goods, while my frugal mind reflects: <i>Who purchases these things to begin with? Who will buy, their cuteness morphed to tasteless kitsch? What unrealized dreams dog their former owners, having burned their money on such baubles?</i><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GTU_nOCsE-s/TOoN5A0s6KI/AAAAAAAAHDE/z626jsK5Dyw/s1600/Unique_xmas_MKMetz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GTU_nOCsE-s/TOoN5A0s6KI/AAAAAAAAHDE/z626jsK5Dyw/s200/Unique_xmas_MKMetz.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thrift store shelves overflow <br />
with knickknacks. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Every secondhand store drowns in them. Yet, for each trinket awarded precious shelf space, jaded volunteers deem another unfit. And several never see Thrift Land's back room jungle, instead taking one-way trips to their owners' rubbish bins. Others languish in over-filled Rubbermaid totes, realizing similar fates once time heals the pain of having paid for them.<br />
<br />
Mindless spending on holiday tchotchkes dwarfs the nearly two million in damage inflicted by Michigan's errant Frosty. Well-meaning folk frantically buy last-minute gifts; substitute Target's ineffectual retail therapy for meaningful interaction; or plunk a doodad in the cart, deeming it cute, or--for clearance shoppers--too cheap to pass up, collectively wasting billions of dollars, not to mention natural resources.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_JdFs87ua_1s/TR4uOUMMAcI/AAAAAAAAJXc/tG8N2yBs_pM/s400/dollars+burning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_JdFs87ua_1s/TR4uOUMMAcI/AAAAAAAAJXc/tG8N2yBs_pM/s200/dollars+burning.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy: <a href="http://soundofcannons.blogspot.com/">Sound of Cannons</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Has Frosty, arsonist, lit a little fire in <i>your</i> wallet?<br />
<br />
We squander for clutter. We shop, while needs go unfilled all around us. We'd donate more if finances weren't so tight; we'd volunteer if we had time. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QaaTJ2jt560/TGb5GQ8_M-I/AAAAAAAAG_o/2BKZ4iQOtkc/s1600/candlelight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QaaTJ2jt560/TGb5GQ8_M-I/AAAAAAAAG_o/2BKZ4iQOtkc/s200/candlelight.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy: <a href="http://mulier-fortis.blogspot.com/">Mulier Fortis</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This year, while others--allowing wee Frosties to incinerate dollars one by one--attempt to spread Christmas cheer by buying more stuff, let <i>us</i> decorate, instead, with <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/10/mountains-of-romania.html" target="_blank">a small candle of caring</a>--by serving God, neighbor, and stranger, mirroring a babe in a manger who came to give everything for us.<br />
<br />
<i>This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.</i><br />
<br />
May our little flames become wildfire, warming frosty hearts everywhere, making for a very merry Christmas.<br />
<div style="color: #999999;">
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<span style="color: #999999; font-size: x-small;">Next: Failed dreams, surprising satisfaction:<i> <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/swimming-in-satisfaction.html">Swimming in Satisfaction</a></i></span><a class="twitter-share-button" data-text="I loved this post at Adventures in Thrift Land" data-url="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/" data-via="LaurasLastDitch" href="https://twitter.com/share">Tweet</a>
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-91498181299292626972011-11-03T22:59:00.008-04:002012-08-14T22:54:38.188-04:00Toast to ThriftOf six, three had survived The Great Depression. Thrifty stock, we carpooled our way to West Virginia in my grandfather's Ford F150 conversion van--his baby--which he rationalized owning because he rented it to others through his <i>Family Fun Rental Vans</i> business.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.wvcommerce.org/App_Media/Assets/images/tourism/Journal/Pipestem_200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.wvcommerce.org/App_Media/Assets/images/tourism/Journal/Pipestem_200.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pipestem Resort State Park<br />
Courtesy: <a href="http://www.wvcommerce.org/travel/journal/bustours/default.aspx">West Virginia Department of Commerce</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
En route from Michigan, my parents, grandparents and I picked up my Great Aunt Ethel at her home in southern Ohio. Our destination: breathtakingly beautiful, uncrowded, and strikingly inexpensive off-season <a href="http://www.pipestemresort.com/">Pipestem Resort State Park</a> in the Appalachian Mountains. <br />
<br />
Our first morning, at the restaurant overlooking <span class="st">Bluestone River Gorge, </span>my mom ate a fruit plate. Served on a decorative bed of romaine, she asked the waitress, "I'd hate to see this beautiful lettuce go to waste. Could I get some salad dressing?" Mortified--I was still a teenager, after all--I rejoiced that the hostess hadn't seated other diners within earshot.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.bbqjunkie.com/wp-content/uploads/2006/03/lettuce_plate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://www.bbqjunkie.com/wp-content/uploads/2006/03/lettuce_plate.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After my mom ate her fruit, she was left with a <br />
decorative bed of lettuce. Courtesy: <a href="http://www.bbqjunkie.com/bbq/working-on-my-bbq-presentation/">BBQ Junkie</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The waitress returned. I bristled upon the sight of<i> two</i> ramekins of salad dressing placed in front of my mother. She ate her "salad," yet one cup of dressing remained. A brainstorming session between a thrifty trio of mom, grandma and Aunt Ethel ensued, the obvious solution--saving it--proving impractical due to lack of a cooler. Worried that the runner-up idea of requesting more lettuce would result in an extra charge, my mom and grandma, chagrined, chose to abandon it. <br />
<br />
Then, teetotaling Aunt Ethel grabbed the salad dressing, downing it in one gulp as if it were a shot of whiskey, exclaiming, "I like salad dressing!" While many people do enjoy salad dressing, few favor it enough to drink straight; that's why it doesn't come in 12-packs. A child of The Great Depression, she might've more accurately declared, "I hate waste!"<br />
<br />
We <i>could</i> just chuckle about Aunt Ethel, proclaiming it silly to pretend drinking the salad dressing really accomplished anything, other than assuaging consciences. <br />
<br />
But perhaps it <i>did</i>. A refreshing change of pace, she set an example, that food is something to be valued, not squandered without a thought. If Aunt Ethel could drink a ramekin of salad dressing that she didn't even buy, how can the rest of us fail to use what we've actually purchased? Yet, estimates state Americans waste over 30% of the food that enters their homes.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B6SVhLFWWXo/TrLzzQiNS0I/AAAAAAAAALg/GKRzLBU5WOc/s1600/Refrigerator+Door.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="151" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B6SVhLFWWXo/TrLzzQiNS0I/AAAAAAAAALg/GKRzLBU5WOc/s200/Refrigerator+Door.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy: <a href="http://www.balancedweightmanagement.com/Bob%27sHealthyKitchen.htm">Bob's Healthful Kitchen</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The book <a href="http://www.americanwastelandbook.com/"><i>American Wasteland: How America Throws Away Nearly Half Its Food (and what we can do about it)</i></a> offers <a href="http://money.usnews.com/money/blogs/alpha-consumer/2011/10/26/15-ways-to-stop-wasting-money-">ways to curb food waste</a>. And I have some parting thoughts of my own to add:<br />
<br />
*People continue to waste food, while donations to charities are down. If you're wasting, you're not giving as you could. <br />
*On Thanksgiving day, we say we're thankful for our food, but a look in our trash cans proves otherwise. <br />
*Many of us require our produce be pristine, or we trash it. But which is <i>really</i> spoiled? The produce, or the person who can't be bothered to cut off a bad spot? <br />
<br />
Like Cutsi in my last post, <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/10/mountains-of-romania.html"><i>The Mountains of Romania</i></a>, Aunt Ethel, too, is a generous giver with a big heart. Indeed, with a good dose of thrift, even those of modest means can aspire to philanthropy. <br />
<br />
So, next time you cull the old salad dressings languishing in your refrigerator door, drink--to Aunt Ethel!<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Up next: We honeymoon at the in-laws', and I meet an incredible woman: <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/10/mountains-of-romania.html">The Mountains of Romania</a></span><a class="twitter-share-button" data-text="I loved this post at Adventures in Thrift Land" data-url="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/" data-via="LaurasLastDitch" href="https://twitter.com/share">Tweet</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-81202821359207143352011-10-28T17:56:00.020-04:002016-10-28T10:32:20.104-04:00The Mountains of Romania<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4xTbIB_VtNE/Tqsah8sQXNI/AAAAAAAAAKw/6DMFEgrzHdU/s1600/2007-03-30+001+2007-03-30+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4xTbIB_VtNE/Tqsah8sQXNI/AAAAAAAAAKw/6DMFEgrzHdU/s200/2007-03-30+001+2007-03-30+007.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calin and I tooled around in his brother's <br />
Dacia on our honeymoon in Romania, <br />
but it didn't take long to see everything<br />
in his parents' neck of the woods. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We had no hotel reserved for our honeymoon.<br />
<br />
Because his parents in Romania didn't attend our stateside wedding, Calin and I visited them afterward. Codlea, <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1319817006_1">Transylvania</span>, isn't exactly a tourist mecca, unless you count Dracula's castle about an hour away and the towering Bucegi mountains we traversed between the airport and Calin's boyhood home. But, poking around the family attic stands in for sight-seeing, when you're desperate enough--especially for someone in<span style="color: blue;"> </span><a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1319817006_2">my<span id="goog_1087113449"></span><span id="goog_1087113450"></span> line of work</span></a><span style="color: blue;">. </span></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OgaazkALOes/TqscKH0OaMI/AAAAAAAAAK4/djog2WtaM0c/s1600/stassfurt_53st201_205606.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OgaazkALOes/TqscKH0OaMI/AAAAAAAAAK4/djog2WtaM0c/s200/stassfurt_53st201_205606.jpg" width="151" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cutsi's Stassfurt TV is like this, <br />
courtesy: <a href="http://www.radiomuseum.org/">www.radiomuseum.org</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the front closet we discovered a derelict East German Stassfurt TV. People in less prosperous countries repair everything. Somehow, though, the Stassfurt never got fixed, defied resuscitation, or simply seemed too outdated to bother with (even my mother-in-law, Cutsi, wanted color television, eventually).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cutsi has difficulty parting with unused items. Since Romania has no thrift stores, and a garage sale would elicit strange looks from neighbors unfamiliar with the concept, decluttering means giving to people you know, or to Gypsies passing in horse-drawn carts. </div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tin8WbwomTY/Tqsdiy2pnRI/AAAAAAAAALA/KbUJ6KviXrA/s1600/PHO-10Sep09-250473.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tin8WbwomTY/Tqsdiy2pnRI/AAAAAAAAALA/KbUJ6KviXrA/s320/PHO-10Sep09-250473.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Decluttering, Gypsy-style. courtesy: <a href="http://wwwimage.cbs.com/">wwwimage.cbs.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In a society devoid of thrift stores and garage sales, a household's detritus should overwhelm. Wouldn't someone who won't toss anything even marginally useful--and who doesn't have a charity store to dump on--be awash in stuff? Yet, with the surplus interspersed throughout the home's pair of closets and attic, it didn't appear remotely excessive, despite being a <i>whole life's</i> worth of cast-offs.<br />
<br />
Cutsi fixes. She gardens. She raises poultry. She uses everything when she cooks, even the turkey feet. She doesn't shop much. She doesn't concern herself with fashion. She gets everywhere on foot. When asked what she'd like us to bring her from the States, she requests a garden hose, and dental floss. When she receives gifts, believing them too good to use, she passes them along to friend or neighbor.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xjmfNrqFdPQ/Trnu5qiyT3I/AAAAAAAAAMQ/hmreQ0j40uY/s1600/DSCF3338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xjmfNrqFdPQ/Trnu5qiyT3I/AAAAAAAAAMQ/hmreQ0j40uY/s200/DSCF3338.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cutsi's nearly empty walk-up attic. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One could argue Cutsi's frugality a necessity, but I disagree. After the fall of Communism, she didn't go on a buying spree, procuring the wonders newly available through capitalism; instead, she socked away retirement checks, sharing with those who desired to further their education, start a modest business, or see to needs in a country thin on social safety nets. And every time we visit, she presses money into our hands; despite our protests, she wants to share the cost of our son's autism therapy. Cutsi's a saver; Cutsi's a giver. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g0fgwDkZxiI/Tqsft6dCzxI/AAAAAAAAALQ/nhMcEsjVljA/s1600/2007-03-30+002+2007-03-30+002.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g0fgwDkZxiI/Tqsft6dCzxI/AAAAAAAAALQ/nhMcEsjVljA/s200/2007-03-30+002+2007-03-30+002.JPG" width="188" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cutsi tends her tomato seedlings. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In wealthier countries--the presence of thrift stores is a symptom of excess, after all--we jettison possessions little by little, hardly realizing how much we've discarded. The thoughtful donate, the shamelessly wasteful take the landfill shortcut. Either way, we <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/frosty-arsonist.html" target="_blank">squander by purchasing goods</a> we don't appreciate enough to keep, or to repair, or to use when they're no longer the latest and greatest. And we choose inferior-quality goods unworthy of the resources used to produce them. Imagine<i> your</i> whole life's cast-offs in one heap. I feel ashamed by <i>my</i> personal Everest.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SBuAnSPDH-E/TrntQykXZjI/AAAAAAAAAMI/7BdH-BuxO3A/s1600/DSCF3339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SBuAnSPDH-E/TrntQykXZjI/AAAAAAAAAMI/7BdH-BuxO3A/s200/DSCF3339.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mount Magura, from Cutsi's back yard. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Atop Cutsi's imaginary pile--modest, like Mount Magura outside her back window, indeed hardly worthy of the "Mount" moniker at all--sits the Stassfurt TV. Even she didn't appreciate <i>it</i> enough to fix.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LXj6AfQbt78/Tqsh7Swm9eI/AAAAAAAAALY/oeZdDrd2-xE/s1600/2007-03-30+001+2007-03-30+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LXj6AfQbt78/Tqsh7Swm9eI/AAAAAAAAALY/oeZdDrd2-xE/s200/2007-03-30+001+2007-03-30+005.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We brought our wedding clothes to <br />
Romania so Calin's parents could see.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Cutsi has one major life regret: missing her son's wedding. The cost of tickets would've been dear, the trip grueling, the plane changes confusing for a pair of pensioners accustomed to the confines of sleepy <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1319817006_3">Codlea, Romania</span>. Now, all she can do is watch the wedding video, on her color television. Even if she were to fix it, the Stassfurt lacks a VCR hookup. <br />
<br />
Some waste is inevitable--even frugal, resourceful Cutsi can't find a use, or a home, for everything. But the biggest waste of all is a life selfishly lived. On this count, Cutsi has no regrets. Imagine your life's acts of <i>giving</i> all on one pile. </div>
<div>
<br />
Would it equal Cutsi's Everest?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://niv.scripturetext.com/matthew/6-19.htm">Matthew 6:19-21</a> <br />
<br />
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<br />
Next: A vintage engineering certificate found at a thrift store leads me on a Google search, and to tears: <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/10/treasures-on-earth-treasures-in-heaven.html" style="color: blue;">Treasures on Earth, Treasures in Heaven</a><br />
<br /></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-size: x-small;">If you enjoyed this post, please comment, share, and follow! </span>
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-49472701578020525902011-10-22T20:48:00.021-04:002012-03-15T21:38:16.613-04:00Treasures on Earth, Treasures in Heaven<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KR_vzAU5UPM/TqNimXDwCsI/AAAAAAAAAKU/5fQthKwCPVY/s1600/2007-03-24+003+2007-03-24+075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KR_vzAU5UPM/TqNimXDwCsI/AAAAAAAAAKU/5fQthKwCPVY/s200/2007-03-24+003+2007-03-24+075.JPG" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/84448000/1950s-machine-age-engineering-diploma">Engineering certificate</a> of William Charles Nilges.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I visit so many thrift stores, it's hard to keep them straight. But <a href="http://nuwaythriftstore.com/default.aspx">NuWay </a>in Kalamazoo, Michigan stands out--because on my initial visit it reaked of urine; because of the prices written in wax crayon directly on the merchandise; because of a presentation so unappealing even I, a hardened thrift store junkie, consider fleeing. <br />
<br />
I return, though, whenever I'm in Kalamazoo, because I manage to unearth a treasure on each visit. Yesterday it was a <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/84448000/1950s-machine-age-engineering-diploma">framed certificate</a>. Issued in 1953, it declared William Charles Nilges a mechanical engineer in the State of Ohio. Its <a href="http://www.etsy.com/treasury/MTQxMzM5MDh8NjgwMDExMzEz/entry-exit">Machine Age design</a> delights me. Though I suspect the anonymity of its recipient will hurt its prospects at <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/">Laura's Last Ditch</a>, with a no-risk price of $3.98, I rolled the dice.<br />
<br />
This evening, Googling "William Charles Nilges," I discovered his <a href="http://obits.mlive.com/obituaries/kalamazoo/obituary.aspx?n=william-nilges&pid=153736861&fhid=4568">obituary</a>. It took a mere month from the day he died at the age of 93 for his certificate to find its way into the shopping cart that I, with difficulty, wended through NuWay's disorganized aisles. "Bill" came from a family of ten. His wife died in '94. He held several patents for hydraulic pumps and owned a Volkswagen dealership. He served in World War II, and built steam-powered toys for nieces and nephews.<br />
<br />
Survived by only two elderly brothers and dying childless, no niece or nephew--steam-powered toys notwithstanding--bothered to claim his mechanical engineering certificate. Feeling a sort of connection to him, I cried. Yet, there was light in one line of his obituary: "Ministering to Bill for many years have been Cathy and Jim Seiser, neighbors with huge hearts and much love." Maybe the detritus of his life went to NuWay, but he was not without friends. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m6VPQxRQkeA/TtBKe6wDFBI/AAAAAAAAANc/hAYtQHc-zPU/s1600/2007-04-27+002+2007-04-27+040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m6VPQxRQkeA/TtBKe6wDFBI/AAAAAAAAANc/hAYtQHc-zPU/s200/2007-04-27+002+2007-04-27+040.JPG" width="170" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our dear neighbor, Walter. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Our nonagenarian neighbor, <a href="http://adventuresinthriftland.blogspot.com/2011/11/walter-1920-2011.html">Walter</a>, moved to a nursing home this past June. Walter, like William Charles Nilges, never had children. Having a speech impediment, neither did he marry. He always gave our son extra attention; because George is different, he has had a special place in Walter's heart. Every month when George's gift subscription of <i>Highlights for Children</i> arrives in the mail, we remember that we really should visit dear Walter.<br />
<br />
With my only child having autism, I am likely to have no grandchildren, no descendants. Some day when I die, though few may remain to mourn my passing, I want written in my obituary, "She was a neighbor with a huge heart and much love." One who<i> ministered</i>. One who visited neighbors in the nursing home.<br />
<br />
My earthly treasures may end up in a heap at the worst secondhand store in town, but my life will have mattered.<br />
<br />
<div class="NPST">
<i><span class="reftext"></span><a href="http://niv.scripturetext.com/matthew/25-34.htm">Matthew 25:34-40</a></i><br />
<i><a href="http://niv.scripturetext.com/matthew/6-19.htm">Matthew 6:19-21 </a></i></div>
<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-38232970745060701502011-10-20T22:27:00.003-04:002012-07-11T21:24:35.180-04:00Sonnet to a Sewer<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YEwiPB-4dYM/TqDVux6timI/AAAAAAAAAKA/SRZm3GlzXe8/s1600/il_570xN.256603536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YEwiPB-4dYM/TqDVux6timI/AAAAAAAAAKA/SRZm3GlzXe8/s200/il_570xN.256603536.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm selling this toilet in <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/">my shop</a>. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have a <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/77652464/vintage-35-gpf-toilet-eljer-white-flush?ga_search_query=toilet&ga_search_type=user_shop_ttt_id_6262900">vintage toilet</a> for sale at <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/">Laura's Last Ditch</a>, which reminds me of a poem I wrote in college:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Sonnet to a Sewer </b></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>O sewer, sewer, sewer, sewer, PEW! </i></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Our waste to you flows ever deep within--</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>The poop, the pee, the barf, dead goldfish, too.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>You take for us what's vile and sick as sin.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i> Each time above a toilet fills with waste, </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>With pools of numbers one or two, yea, three, </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>One needs but flush, the deed will be erased. </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>We are so glad you're here for us, you see.</i></span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Without a sewer all would surely drown</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Amidst the flowing rivers made of dung. </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Without a sewer, stench would fill the town. </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Your praises e'er will stay on ev'ry tongue.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>By taking waste that you made not yourself,</i></span><i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Long life you grant us, sparing precious health. </span> </span></i></div>
<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-22378447188664758462011-10-14T15:40:00.017-04:002016-07-23T09:42:56.032-04:00Organ Grind<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GlDz3iu1fPM/TpiCmFle2_I/AAAAAAAAAJw/xdkh-0-1Who/s1600/0484_1_lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GlDz3iu1fPM/TpiCmFle2_I/AAAAAAAAAJw/xdkh-0-1Who/s200/0484_1_lg.jpg" width="115" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">"Ornate" is not a favored <br />
adjective when describing <br />
furniture that needs dusting.<br />
I'd never want a monstrosity <br />
like this in my house. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I <i>hated</i> it. Our rotating chore calendar boasted a healthy roster of 15 jobs--one for each weekday, multiplied by three children in the family. My obedient older siblings quickly nabbed the more desirable duties, so Tuesday evenings usually found me vacuuming and dusting the living room--following Gilligan's Island, The Brady Bunch, and a healthy dose of procrastination.<br />
<br />
My mom's beloved Victorian parlor organ stretched floor to ceiling on the north wall. With its spindles, mirrors, and shelves buried in doilies and knickknacks, dusting presented a formidable challenge. Maddeningly, it lacked the satisfaction of a job well-done. A week's dust accumulation wouldn't make a convincing "before" and "after" photo diptych, yet, Mom wanted it spotless, so I dutifully removed and wiped down each knickknack, and carried every doily outside for a good shaking. Once the organ shone, back they went onto the shelves. <br />
<br />
Unsurprisingly, I birthed the idea that, as an adult, I wouldn't have knickknacks; surprisingly, perhaps, I've stuck to it. Hence, our home lacks useless decoration, save a handful of framed photos, and a trio of plates hung in the enclosed--and virtually dust-free--built-in china cabinets. At an open house at our former abode, one potential buyer asked, "Is this house vacant?" (It wasn't). <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vBnaQ7TN0pU/TpiA6_XQJ9I/AAAAAAAAAJo/_K7sWMzzZdE/s1600/il_570xN.251290605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vBnaQ7TN0pU/TpiA6_XQJ9I/AAAAAAAAAJo/_K7sWMzzZdE/s200/il_570xN.251290605.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't count this photo of my <br />
mother-in-law as a knickknack. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Hubby and I both strongly support a no knickknack policy. Even so, when he visits family in Romania, I compulsively remind him not to allow anything into his suitcase that we might feel compelled to keep forever. Heirloom or not, if it's not useful, we don't want it, though we gladly make an exception for family photos. What he does take home, though, are things his mom no longer needs that I can sell in <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/lauraslastditch">my online shop</a>. Last year it was a Soviet <a href="http://www.cryptomuseum.com/covert/sniper/index.htm">Photo Sniper</a> camera ($175) and a distressed hand-tooled leather belt ($40). This year, he scored an antique <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/83823994/antique-hand-woven-linen-towel-table">handwoven towel</a>, a primitive pepper mill, another <a href="http://www.etsy.com/transaction/62216925" target="_blank">Soviet Chaika camera</a>, and a carved African ashtray from a favorite uncle.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aTSFx7tPTgA/TpiGGwf6I_I/AAAAAAAAAJ4/t7nLb46b-Po/s1600/2007-03-16+001+2007-03-16+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aTSFx7tPTgA/TpiGGwf6I_I/AAAAAAAAAJ4/t7nLb46b-Po/s200/2007-03-16+001+2007-03-16+003.JPG" width="199" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry, hubby, but I don't want<br />
this in my living room. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But this time, hubby thinks he needs to keep the ashtray. Despite my pleas that things are not people, that, if you want to remember someone, just hang a photo, for some reason he insists we keep this ghastly ashtray. An ashtray!<br />
<br />
When I nixed the living room, he proposed the music studio. He'd even settle for the closet. But, I have a better idea:<br />
<br />
How about on my mom's parlor organ?<br />
<br />
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</script>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780374653508040931.post-37641957191018504642011-10-08T22:05:00.004-04:002012-01-15T19:54:50.444-05:00100 Thing Challenge Book GiveawayHere's my first-ever giveaway.<br />
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Riddle: What's so good, you <i>have</i> to get rid of it?<br />
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Answer: <i>The 100 Thing Challenge</i> book.<br />
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Oh, the irony! This giveaway encourages people to visit <a href="http://www.lauraslastditch.etsy.com/">my Etsy shop</a>, by offering a book about getting rid of stuff. Here's my rationale: Dave Bruno, in <a href="http://guynameddave.com/the-book/"><i>The</i> <i>100 Thing Challenge: How I Got Rid of Almost Everything, Remade My Life, and Regained My Soul</i></a> doesn't count things that benefit the entire household as part of his 100 items; moreover, he writes that, when you have so few things, quality counts. Since I specialize in quality vintage kitchenwares, I suppose I can do this giveaway with a squeaky-clean conscience.<br />
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Click "read more" below for the giveaway entry. <br />
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<noscript>&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://rafl.es/enable-js"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;You need javascript enabled to see this giveaway&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;.</noscript>Laura's Last Ditch Vintage Kitchenwares http://www.blogger.com/profile/06080705179607005052noreply@blogger.com1