Thrifting With The Girls

Friday is 50%-off-day at the local thrift stores. I’d heard about this from my neighbor Bobsie. She and her octogenarian gal pals have made this humble occurrence into a major monthly outing. She has told me stories. Like the time one of them donated a couch only to have another buy it back later.

I love these women. Collectively they have supported each other through cancer, Parkinson’s disease, and hip replacements; through the loss of one spouse, and the various life-threatening diseases of the others. They prize being able to live independently, and do everything within their power to face the challenges of each day with courage, optimism, and humor. Lots and lots of humor.

When I analyze the remarkable friendships of these women, I say that Bobsie is the honey that attracts the others. And now she has me, too. We are a cluster of bees that laugh at her jokes and put up with sitting in the second-to-the-front row in a huge church auditorium for the 8:00 service on Sunday mornings. Ron, who also tags along when he’s available, calls this the cheering section. Bobsie claps enthusiastically with the worship music whether anyone else does or not. I get the giggles when Jeannie whispers stop now! with absolutely no effect. I’ve come to expect spontaneous hugs whenever Bobsie is particularly moved by a song or testimony.

One Sunday we had this whole whispered conversation, in the second-to-the-front row, about how, when I would get my harp replaced, she would see to it that I get invited as a guest harpist. I gaze up at the huge stage with its carefully designed set and large group of musicians who probably do this for a living. I whisper back that I’m not a member, and anyway, she’s never even heard me play. To which she replies that neither of those things matter in the least. She’s sure I must be good.

On Friday I accepted Bobsie’s invitation to join them on their 50%-off-tour. I didn’t know quite what to expect. She did not offer many details along with the invitation. But I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed so much, or gone to so many thrift stores, in one day. We ended up supporting single moms, victims of domestic violence, cancer survivors, rescued animals, and the local hospice all in one whirlwind shopping trip.

The Girls have a system. We were each given a designated portion of the well behind the way-back-seat in Bobsie’s van. This was where we were to deposit our purchases. And if we happened to have a lapse of collective memory and couldn’t actually remember just who bought what, we could rely on this designated-spot method at day's end.

On the way to pick up Sharon at her daughter’s place, the others were discussing Sharon and Dean's new house in Roseville, about an hour’s drive away.

“Why did they move to Roseville?” I ask.

There is a chorus of I don’t know, do you know? No, do you know?

“Why don’t you ask her, Kathy? We all want to know.”

I make small talk with Sharon for the first leg of our outing, so it won’t be quite so obvious that I’ve been commissioned to extract information from her. But en route to the second shop I pop the question.

“So Sharon, why did you and Dean move to Roseville?”

Now Sharon has a gift for carrying on any conversation on any given subject for an indefinite period of time all by herself. She was pleased as punch to give an extraordinarily thorough explanation for their move, one to satisfy any curiosity remaining in the rest of the group. I was quite pleased to have accomplished my task so easily.

I found the rocking chair at about our third stop. There it was, right by the front door waiting for me. I  sat in it and rocked back and forth, ran my hand over the wood to find possible cracks or flaws. The Girls took turns oohing and aahing and sitting and rocking to make sure it would also fit Ron. We took a vote and agreed that it should be the very rocker to replace the one lost in the flood.

I continue browsing as the others shop. I wait when I see Jeannie approaching me with her slow gait.

“Are you going to buy it?” she asks in her quiet voice.

“Yup,” I reply.

“Don’t wait too long,” she cautions me. “It won’t be there tomorrow.”

I heed her advice.

Now Bobsie’s van is spacious, but there is no way this rocker is going to fit in my designated spot in the well. One of the lovely women working in the store marks it ‘sold’ and says I can pick it up within three days.

Suddenly I look around and I panic.

“Where are we anyway?” I ask Bobsie, having completely lost my bearings. I should have been leaving a trail of bread crumbs or something. She gives me a few points of reference so I will indeed be able to come pick it up tomorrow.

While the others are still browsing, Bobsie and I sit in her car chatting. The back hatch is open to receive purchases, and we have our doors open to let in the cool breeze. I happen to glance out the window where a gray haired, gray bearded man is mouthing words and making odd motions with his arms. I turn to look behind us, to see who he is talking to. But no one is there. When I turn back to look at him again he mouths more words. I raise my eyebrows and point to myself. He nods, and I finally realize he is asking if we need some help. I politely call out the door to say we are okay.

“What does he want?” Bobsie asks.

“I think he is hitting on us,” I tell her, which sends her into raucous laughter.

“So, what do you think of him?” she asks conspiratorially, like we are still in junior high or something.

“I’m a married woman,” I say piously. “And so are you.”  She giggles. As if either of us could forget. Our combined years of married life are just shy of a century.

Later, in another store, I see The Man again.

“I think he’s following us,” I whisper to Bobsie as we squeeze between tightly packed racks of women’s clothing.

“You are paranoid,” she announces, much too loudly for my comfort. “You really need to work on your observation skills. You’d never make it as a witness. The other guy didn’t have nearly such a big belly and was much better looking.”

But who’s watching.

The day includes a drive to the Happy Apple Farm so we can have lunch at the Happy Apple Kitchen. They grow apples there. Very happy apples. We talk and talk, and eat like hard working farm hands. We order dessert, and Bobsie trades bites of her desert for bites of ours. And we all agree to this, for goodness sake. It’s the bees-and-honey principle at work.

The 50%-off-day tour takes all day. After the fifth or sixth shop we forget to close the back hatch door and drive off down the road. The women are all chatting, but I hear a funny sound.

“The hatch is open,” I yell to Bobsie. We pull over so she can press the magic button to close it. (She insists that we don’t shut it manually. Evidently, it must be closed from the key fob to be done correctly.) There is much giggling among The Girls. No treasures are lost. No harm no foul. I am really glad we aren't on the freeway.

I’m the youngest one in this group, and I am exhausted. They finally decide to call it a day, and the others are safely dropped off at their homes with their treasures. Bobsie drops me off at Sanctuary and heads home up her driveway.

These women are the real treasures. I want to be just like them when I grow up.