Watching my mother in a thrift shop is like watching a child come alive in a sweet shop.
As I keep a eye on my mother, she walks around a cluttered shop of smelly old-fashioned collectibles. From old vintage radios to cars to antique furniture. And photography from decades ago of strange men and woman, that have since passed. I love thrift shops.
My mother’s blue eyes come alight. Sparkle, with her glasses on of the tip of her nose. She gets down and dirty. Rummages through all the weird and wonderful things to find the hidden gems. She turns everything around and upside down.
To to read all the stamps. Dates, messages and inscriptions. Filled with knowledge, she knows her antiques. And has the knack and can find something in a heap. That is worth thousands that she will buy for a few hundred.
She has literally driven miles out of town to every secondhand shop I can remember for years. Dropping my inheritance, buying old broken furniture. To restore them into the most wonderful pieces.
That people have bought, treasured and loved for years. I am so lucky to be her daughter, as I get the first choice. So my home is filled with eclectic pieces that I have come to love. The experience is undeniably the most memorable moments in my life.
I usually just walk around with her. Making sure she doesn’t get a fright. Or bump a old jewelry case leaving us in much debt before we have even left. But she always surprises me. As she gently picks up the strangest things,
Cupping it in her hands, and inspecting it. And then precedes to tell me the history of the jar, plate or table. I smile and listen and fall in love with her passion every time.