Yard sales.

July 2, Laconia.

I am your economy's worst nightmare.
It has been years since I bought anything new: other than food, shoes and underwear, next to nothing I buy comes from a store. Used is the word, out of principle (it's already out there so why not reuse and save a little precious energy and resources?) but really, let's be honest, because both Fridman and I enjoy the treasure chase so much.
The one store we patronize religiously is called Goodwill.
Yard sales, moving sales, porch sales, barn sales, tag sales, basement sales, church sales, garage sales, we've been to all and we love them all. Each one is like a little Christmas in a ride, you open your presents in the morning and you don't know what you'll find. Looking through people's stuff, the proverbial window into their lives, the books they read, or won't, the linen nobody uses anymore, the must-have clothes the teenager won't be caught dead wearing now, and walking away with that scooter we've been coveting since Dylan had his stolen last year (another garage-sale buy, of course,) a hundred-year-old trunk covered in dust and drowned memories, Christmas ornaments, a world history book's edition from 1880, the leather soft like paper, made-in-England, Stratford's "Scenes from the Shakespeare Country" plates, pale rose, like so much family history ("these were my mother's, they're old.")
No finding these in a store.
We are your economy's worst nightmare.