The thrift’s in the store

I still can’t get over it. I’d been braving the deepening cold and Palmer’s unique brand of wind on my good-distance treks to town with all the upper fortification I could muster: a rust earflap hat swallowed by a green, orange and yellow pullover hat, both peeking out from a royal blue hooded scarf and crowned with a bulkier scarf hat of striped pastels. I know — a smart look if there ever was one. But deep within my still-shivering soul, a longing kept bubbling up and escaping from in-between the layers: “A jacket with a hood, Lord. Just a jacket with a hood.”

After a 22-year hiatus and as something of a survival tactic, I’d returned to Alaska on short notice earlier this year, toting whatever winter duds I could sweat it out with on the plane or stuff in my bags. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be staying or where circumstance would lead me. Now circumstance and work had deposited me at winter’s doorstep, wondering when I’d be equipped to completely come in from the cold.

With my quicksand finances, I knew thrift stores were my only hope, and Palmer’s Bishop’s Attic and G&G Thrift Shop hadn’t disappointed yet, making the town seem that much more of a safe place to land. I’d been blessed to acquire pants, sweaters, scarves, sweatshirts, and gloves. The searching itself had been a relaxing escape from life’s routines and cares. When I needed assistance finding anything, almost-angelic staff members cheerfully went out of their way to help. My winter wardrobe was expanding, but still, there was that head, um, situation I couldn’t quite cover.

Then suddenly, as I browsed absentmindedly one day recently at Bishop’s Attic, a vision: a glowing, wine-colored, like-new, Land’s End ticket to warmth. Style, even. I moved in closer. Was that really an invitingly soft, plush lining that covered the entire, perfect-size item in question, including the embracing hood? My, yes, and it felt even softer than it looked. I fumbled for the price tag. Forty-five dollars? I knew the “Better Coats” section and I could never be more than passing acquaintances. No, wait; it was just the tears of joy in my eyes. Fifteen. Just 415. Even I could sort of swing that. After inspecting it for fatal flaws I couldn’t find, I made it my own, and all I’ve had since that first lovestruck moment is comfort as I toastily egg on the elements. My Christmas gift from God, an answer to my multi-muffled prayer, by way of the thoughtful person who donated it. My sincere gratitude to both.

Thrift stores — not to mention rummage and garage sales — have always seemed like one of the brighter ideas people have come up with. No matter what you need, you can almost always unearth it there; and often the greater the need, the more they come through for you. I love their egalitarian atmospheres, where everyone can feel at ease with no hoops to jump through to get much-needed deals with one’s dignity intact. And they leave you with none of the stress of worrying about staining or breaking something because “I paid $100 for this.” They’re places that actually make life workable.

It doesn’t hurt at all either that they also provide somewhere to contribute to the needs of others while recycling your unneeded stuff. Apparently some thrift stores waste donations, but many wisely value and make the best use of them, accomplishing worthwhile things with part of their proceeds. It’s a relief — something of a shock, really — to see resources used so wisely and economically in our society, and there’s no time like now to maximize every ounce of economic good sense possible.

Thank God there are warm, welcoming havens to help us all weather whatever cold fronts and storms lie ahead.

Vicki Walsh is a caregiver and freelance writer who lives in Palmer.