ar_wahan: (Default)
ar_wahan ([personal profile] ar_wahan) wrote2007-06-09 07:07 pm
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A magic box of earrings summons the Tightwad Fairy

First, you should know that I inherited my woo-woo stuff from my grandmother. And I inherited my "I-love-the-hunt-for-a-bargain" gene from my mother.

The day got off to a rather odd start. I was supposed to be at a rehearsal at church at 10 a.m., so I set my alarm to go off at 8:30. When I woke up on my own, the clock said 8:20, and I thought, "Wow, it sure is dark this morning!" When I rolled out of bed and went downstairs, I realized that all the other clocks said it was 7:20! I had moved my clock's time ahead by an hour last night by mistake. Oh, well. I was up, might as well stay up. I took the time to look for tag sale ads. There hadn't been many in yesterday's paper, but there was a new one listed on Poet's Corner, a subdivision.

It was raining, so I figured any tag sales planned for today would be off. The rehearsal was shorter than expected, so I decided to go over to a new resale shop that opened last month. It takes donations of items and resells them to benefit a hospice facility that just opened here. Last weekend, the children at church had held a tag sale to benefit a family shelter in town. I'd offered to take the items that hadn't sold to the hospice shop. I hadn't been in it before.

I dropped off the items, and wandered a bit around the shop. It was mostly clothing, but beautiful clothing, at that. Then I noticed a jewelry section, and gasped. There was a basket with old-fashioned, clip-on earrings. "Yes!" I said happily out loud. "There's still a market for these!" I explained to the volunteer clerk that I had a whole jewelry box of these things (costume jewelry, not real gems) that had belonged to my mother. I hadn't wanted to throw them out, but hadn't known what to do with them. She assured me they had many customers (older) who were looking for clip-ons, as they are now hard to find. So, I turned around and drove home and sorted through the old jewelry box, which was in the same mish-mash as when I'd found it. There were lots of earrings with no mates, but I matched up a dozen or so sets, including some that my mother had clearly purchased in her travels abroad (there was a beautiful pair from China and another probably from Japan. But neither was something I or Samurai would ever wear.).

I went back to the shop and walked in to find a woman I know socially from my days as a reporter. Ellen, a state representative for many years and still making liberal waves in that office, was now in there, shopping. The volunteers in the store were excited to see me return, and all crowded around to see the earrings. Ellen (who is older than me) said she still wore clip-ons, and she admired a pair. But because the manager hadn't priced them yet (and was not in the building), they couldn't be sold to her just yet. So she'd have to come back.

She and I chatted a bit about various things.

Then one of the volunteers said slyly to me, "You know, technically, they still belong to you. So..."

I grinned, double-checked with the other volunteers that this was OK with them, and pulled the admired earrings out of the box to place them in Ellen's hand. She was flattered and pleased, Afterwards I told the volunteer who'd suggested the "way out" of the situation that my mother would really have liked Ellen and her politics; and knowing that someone I knew personally and admired was wearing that pair, anyway, made me feel good. Actually made me choke up a little. I'm not sure if Ellen heard me say this or not. But I know I'll bump into her again, and I can mention it then.

And now...  The sun had come out as I'd returned to town, and I decided to see if I could find a chair at  the Poet's Corner tag sale. As I mentioned yesterday, I wanted one to put in the kitchen to replace a glider that I'd found years ago with a "free" sign on the side of the road. It had finally collapsed the other day. We'd use it for sitting and reading the morning news, lazily using the arm rests to prop up our elbows while holding the paper.

The Poet's Corner families had retreated into their garages during the rain. Now they were cautiously putting items back out onto their driveways and lawns. No chairs that interested me. But .... my grandmother had some Revereware cookware that I brought back here after she died in 1983. One pot has a slightly dented lid, so I can't use it for rice or similar things. The other pots and frying pan are fine. But  sometimes I've wished I had other saucepans of different dimensions. I wandered around a bit and found...





.

These were $1 each! I decided what the heck, I'd get all five. Almost more than I need, frankly, but what I don't use, Samurai can take with her to college. And now I have a medium-sized pot with a lid that fits tightly.

Now, while you're still in this cut, take a look at the chairs around the kitchen table. I was looking for a chair that would not clash with them, but that would have arms. I had already looked at Salvation Army, Target, and on line, and not seen anything close. The styles in fashion today are either too modern, or too fussy to go with the other things here.

So, I decided I would next go to a used furniture store in the musty basement of an old building. I bought lots of things there in my impoverished reporter days. I walked in, picking my way through its crowded series of dark rooms. There was one chair that was so-so, but the wood stain was a little too dark. I went into another room, and suddenly had the urge to look up. The store is so packed, the old man who has run it for decades sometimes hangs the lighter chairs from the ceiling. I found myself looking into the shadows at the bottom of a chair that looked... the right color. And the right shape. At least, from what little I could see.

I asked him to retrieve it from the hook.



$30.

True, the seat is slightly marred, but I was planning on getting a cushion (and maybe a cushion for the back) anyway.


Hehehehehe!


I like to think my mother and grandmother went shopping with me today.

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