Little Old Lady in the Thrift Shop

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I figured out who I am likely to be as an old lady today. 

I feel at home here in this Episcopal thrift shop, wandering around and, in my current tiny house headset, denying myself, but still finding some possible pants I could let the waist out of.

And a lamp.

I sit down at a table to wait for my daughter, who is still fingering the merchandise and has a stack of clothes on her arm, and begin to write on my phone:

Little Old Lady in the Thrift Shop

What are you so busy with? Someone asks.

Well I’m a writer 

Oh yeah …?

Do you know where the vacuum cleaners are? she asks.

This will be my shopping routine, unlike the tony stores I took my own mother to every week for the last decade of her life.

I acknowledge the thrill of browsing, maybe purchasing; the real power of retail therapy, even with only pennies in my pocket, and a need for nothing much.

Mama taught it to me.

Find out more by reading my book: Shopping with Mama: Write ’Til the End, out mid- December 2018. Pre-orders soon. And, if you would, please help me get Mama’s story out to the world, by going to the FB page of the same name, liking and sharing to help me spread the word. It helps! Thanks!  

 https://www.facebook.com/shoppingwithmama/

One thought on “Little Old Lady in the Thrift Shop

  1. I guess you know you make me cry with your stories. What your mother and you did together whether it was the last decade of her life or before, just mesmerizes me. I have to confess that my mother never went shopping with me when I was growing up… but when she was in her retirement home in Winston-Salem, she used to ask me to come visit and she would take me to Talbot’s. (I was still living in Chapel Hill as I am now) I never could afford Talbot’s, but she could. She bought me things and then, later, my brothers would tell me she just lured me to come see her by taking me shopping. That really hurt my feelings. I kept everything she ever bought for me, every little picture I had of her, I even have the plastic pitcher they gave her when she was in the hospital. I use it all the time to fill my coffee maker with water. I never got the kind of close-knit shopping you had, but in my mom’s later life, she had fun seeing what things I picked out and that she paid for. (Also, after my father died in the retirement home, my mom cut loose from her tightly wound self and started drinking Margaritas when we went to restaurants! She never drank! She was a marvel after she was sort of “emancipated”.) I miss you, Mom.

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