The Unique Thrift Store.

August 1, Willowick.

A good day by the lake, but we never get to it because of the swimming pool and spray park right where we are, Dylan has the time of his life and Nicolas is ever coming out of his anxious shell, my no-water-on-my-head one and he starts out crying and ends up running up a storm under the dinosaur spouts, one more battle won on my side, one more big door blasted open on his journey through unveiling the murky nonsense we take on as life.
Laundry day too, on a strip of suburban thoroughfare between a rundown Sears and a liquor store, and a thrift store to die for, half-price on Mondays, and a three-dollar pair of Gap pants will cost you next to nothing, welcome to America, a cartload of stuff and not even a dent in my pocket, so much stuff and I wonder whether this is because people here have too much or whether Europeans are just too stingy - no such thing in France as The Unique Thrift Store and its endless racks of ridiculously cheap used clothes.
Julie is all smiles.