We all harbor special memories from our childhood; some are fuzzy and distant while others remain as crystal clear as a fine summer day.
Here’s one of mine.
I’m a pre-teen and unfortunately way smaller than I had planned on being at that age.
I clearly remember hate, hate, hating my round-toed Easter patent leather shoes while their’s (my sisters’) were all cool and pointy.
Two big sisters, we all live under the same roof, and they have WAY more stuff than me; more clothes, more shoes, more pocketbooks (as we called them then, now they’re purses.)
It was only fair that they should share their goods, but noooooo. Because they were selfish, I was forced to forage through their closets in the dark of night…with a flashlight.
Needless to say I was caught, more than once, and tortured by those witches. And THAT, my friends, is how I came to be Second Hand Rose.
“It’s no wonder that I feel abused, I never get a thing that ain’t used
I’m wearing second hand hats, second hand clothes, that’s why they call me
Second Hand Rose”…
As the years passed I developed a considerable hatred for clothes shopping.
Nothing ever fit right, I despise dressing rooms, and I’m pretty sure there’s not a gal on the entire planet with legs as short as I got stuck with.
Malls make me physically ill and I’m so distrustful of internet shopping that it’s virtually impossible for me to buy new duds.
Turns out I actually LIKE being Second Hand Rose. For some reason other people’s clothes intrigue me and just feel right.
I’m not shy or contrite when accepting hand-me-downs. I adore the sweater my good buddy Barney Barnum gave me when his lovely wife passed. It’s so cozy and no doubt full of lovely memories.
And yes, my mud boots were given to me by a then 10-year-old Zach McGough (darn big feet for a kid,) and I adore them.
My biggest donor, ironically, remains my sister Lisa. Now here’s a gal who knows her way around the shopping world, and now that we’re old, SHE SHARES!
Just this week I ventured to Connecticut for a visit (okay, admittedly she may have mentioned fall closet cleaning was taking place), and SCORE!
Came on home with bulging bags of delightfulness, tags bearing names I do not recognize because I cannot shop.
Of course, as soon as she left for work I got out my flashlight for old time’s sake and perused her closets, then showed up at Northwestern Regional School (my ex-employer, but she still works there) in a wonderfully soft pair of her fave pants.
Funny stuff I tell ya, though she truly can still kick my hiney if the mood strikes her.
“Stuff in our apartment came from father’s store,even clothes I’m wearing someone wore before
Everyone knows that I’m just Second Hand Rose…”
While I was there we also enjoyed a “cousins’ dinner” and I got to visit with my beloved Godmother Zizi Jackie, whom this rant is dedicated to.
I love them all, and invited them up for a visit. The only requirement is, of course, a nice bag of clothes!