Westerners are packrats. Blame
it on the availability of flea markets or just the size of our
backyards. My house is no exception, except that most of my stuff
comes from the midden heap, which doesn’t mean I’ve
been pilfering artifacts from sacred sites.
The Anasazi
used to dump their trash much like many of our ranchers, farmers
and land owners — into the nearest arroyo — which
archaeologists have taken to calling “midden heaps.” In a thousand
years, whoever digs up my ruin will find more than they bargained
for.
The midden heap I refer to has been sponsored by a
local thrift store. I’m proud to live in this region, because
the West is a haven for us fix-it up types, folks who never throw
anything away because one day it might come in handy. Maybe I ought
to have been an archaeologist. I own enough stuff to open my own
museum, but I lack the training to properly classify and display
it.
My mother was appalled when she first learned that I
shop at thrift stores. To her and to many of her generation, thrift
stores were full of dead people’s clothes, where the
destitute shuffled in for a handout. She insisted on buying her
stuff new. I try to think of a thrift store as an excavation. The
goods arrive, usually in a mound at the back door, and savvy
sorters begin by digging through the bags and boxes to separate
what’s saleable from what belongs in the dumpster.
During this process the workers can be heard to exclaim, “Look at
this!” Or, “What the heck is that supposed to be?” When
archaeologists can’t identify an artifact, they pass it off
as having “sacred or religious” significance Luckily, the
volunteers don’t write dissertations about their quandaries.
They simply shrug their shoulders, laugh, and set it out on a shelf
to see if a customer can identify it.
I never realized
before how much of the world gets discarded. Everything new can
suddenly turn less than new, less than perfect. Once upon a time,
thrift shops were havens of the poor, those down on their luck or
just plain downtown, looking for a drink. The Salvation Army,
Goodwill, New Horizons. Names flying like flags where we pledge our
sympathy.
I’ve seen people in the aisles, holding a
shirt up against a shadow, fitting a foot into a shoe they’d
like to fill. Others are families, mothers with children in tow,
furiously shopping so they might fill an empty bag, college kids
laughing outrageously at what looks outrageous. Then buying it.
Pioneers settled the West, spurred by the thrill of
discovery, and it’s exciting to know that the thrill
hasn’t vanished. Last week, I found a car rack for my
mountain bike at a thrift store, identical to the $60 version I
bought at a specialized bike shop. The used one cost me 3 bucks, so
instead of owning two, I returned the expensive one for a refund.
I’ve purchased furniture with no down payment, and the only
interest I have to deal with comes from the people who stop by and
ask, “Wherever did you find that chair?”
I’ve got
more used books than I’ll ever be able to read in one
lifetime, but when I heard that bookshelves in a double-wide make
good insulation, I get a warm feeling every time I buy another.
Some people might call what I do cheap, but I’m
comfortable with the word. Compare the thrifty feeling with the
typical advertising banter of blowout sales at most retail stores
and you’ll understand why “used” gets me enthused. I mean,
really, a 15 percent savings on Levi jeans! Big deal. The relaxed
fit I’m after is the knowledge that my total bill adds up to
an average mall shopper’s sales tax.
You see,
there’s nothing wrong with secondhand. So much of what we use
hardly ever gets used up. When we learn to feel at home with what
has been in other people’s homes, we begin to see the West as
a great recycling bin — not just a receptacle for glass,
aluminum, paper or plastic.
As thrifters, we are born
into the ranks of gold diggers or even tinhorn sheriffs, the ones
who asks the rustler with the noose around his neck, what he
intends to do with his boots once he’s ridden into the
unknown.
David Feela is a contributor to
Writers on the Range, a service of High Country
News (hcn.org). He is a teacher in Cortez,
Colorado.
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