There is nothing I find more thrilling than a weekend spent at swap meets, estate sales and second-hand stores, rummaging through possessions that have been either sold or left behind.
My penchant for second-hand, vintage goods started at an early age, when I would beg my dad to take a detour from his route on our drive and follow the address on the “garage sale” signs plastered around the neighborhood. Some of my earliest finds included a complete set of classical music CDs that bolstered my love for Rachmaninoff and a pair of troll doll earrings — a find I treasured as if they were a pair of Tiffany & Co. diamond studs.
My mother, who has never been a fan of the phrase “One man's junk is another man's treasure” scoffed every time I walked through the door with a new find.
“You realize that someone else has used it,” she would say.