Last weekend, my son signed us (my twin grandchildren, my son, and myself) up to volunteer at Windham Area Interfaith Ministries (WAIM), a social service agency for people who need assistance in the area.
Our job was mostly to sort through community donations. Among their other services, WAIM has clients who come in for clothes and household goods — at no charge — and it helps to know what size you’re looking at when you come to get school clothes for your kids.
That’s where we came in.
The grandkids took to the task quickly, mostly because we were in the building’s freezing fifth floor that’s partially devoted for storage, surrounded by things like old cameras, adult diapers and wigs.
It was like being in the attic of someone really cool.
On a lower floor, WAIM offers clothing people can wear to job interviews, and I started thinking about an entire row in my closet devoted to suit coats I will never wear again, ever. The blazers are left over from my time in a newsroom, for the rare occasions when I needed to tart up to impress (or frighten). The issue with that is I left the newsroom 11 years ago and during the interim learned that I can frighten just fine wearing business casual. So when I got home, I went through that row and filled a trash bag of decent blazers of the job-interview nature.
I’m a little horrified I didn’t do this sooner. In fact, I didn’t even think to do this sooner, and ask any one who knows me, I’m the farthest thing from a hoarder you can find (as I have relatives who were hoarders, this is a touchy subject for me). I mean, these past 11 years haven’t exactly been spent in monastic prayer. Twice a year, when I swap out warm clothing for cold and a few months later reverse the process, I always cull the herd — except for that row of suit jackets. They hung as a monument to…my former career? My youth? I wore one of those jackets to my father’s 1992 funeral (that one I kept), and another one to my son’s high school graduate. I didn’t take photos at the funeral, but I have scads of the graduation and those should do just fine to spark my memory.
So out the door they went, and I’m feeling a little lighter.
(By the way? WAIM plans a tag sale for late March. A few of the items we admired had price tags on them already. For people accustomed to paying Connecticut-shore prices at your local thrift store, you will be pleasantly surprised at Willimantic’s prices. It’s worth your while to friend the organization on Facebook, fill up the tank, and head for that sale.)
When I cull, I take our stuff to The Boys and Girls Club thriftstore near us. Another good cause!
My former profession’s dress code entailed either warm weather or cold weather attire, mostly jeans and t-shirts for me. I still have my “Make love not war” t-shirt from 1976! My motto has always been “resale before retail,” and my granddaughters adore shopping second hand, as it seems there is more choice and better quality (whatever that means in their universe). I have already downsized three times since moving away from our house in Simsbury last year. And I will have to do it again once we find a house. We’re living out of suitcases now, and we’ve discovered how little we actually need. After the downfall of 2016 and after Covid-19’s devastating effects on our sanity and health, the prices of temporary housing sores above even two-professional’s means. Our listing prices for homes we are now looking for is ridiculous. Our budget will definitely take a hit and places such as these suffice for me anyway. I grew up dirt and chicken-shit poor, so I do not consider myself too good for the dredges, but we worked diligently and hard for our retirement, and I am just a privileged pale skinned, brown-hearted women with wants like anyone in my situation. Wants and needs have reversed themselves in our unicorn world and adjustments need to be made. Thanks you for this post! Like, I don’t have any clothes worth donating (mostly really old comfortable t-shirts and jeans and western wear from my days in New Mexico), but I have tons of stuff going to places like this. Hi ho, Susan!