A friend and I went to Goodwill the other day.
I actually made her take me. For the last couple of months, every time I ask where she got that fabulous coat/shirt/sweater, the answer was Goodwill. Since we’re roughly the same size and height, I thought I could take advantage of her luck/hunting acumen/perseverance.
The first thing that hits me is the smell. It’s not exactly wretched, barely even unpleasant. But it’s there. It’s the smell of people’s basements, of 500 kinds of perfume, of every ethnicity’s cooking. And it’s all covered in the vague odor of industrial strength detergent.
About half a rack of sweaters in, I’m bored. My friend rolls her eyes, says she’ll meet me at the change rooms in half an hour. She’ll use the time to find 14 sweaters, 2 dresses, and a pair of boots. (We only left one of the sweaters behind. She’s very, very good at what she does.) I head for the books.
And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a perfectly pristine copy of THIS:
I try not to squeal, so as not to frighten the Blue Hairs, picking up their Harlequin romances (which I believe are priced by the pound). I kept meaning to pick this up, never did. Finished it in 8 hours, even though I tried to stretch it out, make it last. Couldn’t.
But the best book find I ever made at a thrift store wasn’t for me. It was for the kids.
Once I got it home, actually looked at, I realized I couldn’t give it to them.
Just didn’t seem like something I wanted to read them as I tucked them in safely at bedtime: