Explaining Charity Shops to Americans
Created | Updated Nov 10, 2005
My Irish husband Tony and I have recently moved to Birmingham UK and I
am writing a weekly blog explaining Europe to my fellow Americans. This is the entry
about charity shops. You can find the others here
My first “buy” was a car coat. Black and gold (Pittsburgh Steeler colours), winter
lining and a hood, thank God. A few buttons missing. So what? £5. I was hooked.
Next, a platinum grey, polished-silk jacket, nipped in at the waist. I grabbed it
and the paisley silk scarf for less than £6 total. There was no turning back.
I began to plan my route to get a fix on each trip to our town centre. Save the
Children first. They rarely had what I wanted, but who could resist saving the
children? Sidling past women’s clothing, then men’s, pretending to glance at the
books, I aimed for the dishes and glassware in back. Once I scored a glass casserole
with a lid for a pound fifty. It filled the emptiness I felt after the blue one at
Oxfam had slipped through my fingers. After all, 3.50? What did they think this was,
Woolworth’s?
Saving the Children was starters. A few blocks down was my real destination. The
big kahuna. The Resettlement Shop. The only local that had the hard stuff.
Furniture.
Yes, there were clothes, and yes, that was where my habit had started, with the
black and gold coat. But what had lured me through the door was furniture, cascading
up three steps onto the stage in back. Not as big as Goodwill back in the US, not as
clean cut as IKEA, but this—this could be mine.
My frequent trips were justified by great clothing bargains. Look, don’t touch.
Toy with a glass bauble. Or extra silverware for 20p each. Excuses to visit my real
quarry: The wood table in the back, with the hand-painted peacock on top. £25. Did I
dare?
Who had painted it? It wasn’t the work of a child, but of an accomplished,
non-professional artist. The dark green peacock is painted onto a burnt orange
background, surrounded symmetrically by flowers and birds, and well varnished.
Weathered, aged; but undamaged. The bird’s head turns sideways, in a Picasso stare,
challenging, as if to ask, what am I doing here? On a non-descript table? If you put
something on top of me, you’ll cover my plumage. The effect will be lost. A totally
impractical artistic endeavour. I wanted it.
The price dropped to £15 the day before our first dinner party. I swooped in for
the kill, and also snapped up three wooden stack tables for £10. I handed the cash to
the volunteer, asked her to hold the pieces until my husband could come by in a taxi to
pick them up, and never looked back. The next night I proudly covered the peacock with
a tray of assorted crackers and cheeses for our first guests.
My needs took me further a field. Erdington. A low class neighbourhood with even
lower class shops. No hoity-toity oh-yes-we-take-credit-cards Oxfam stores here.
But—another Save the Children. Two Resettlement Shops, right across the street from
each other; one clothes, the other, more furniture. Scope—the organization for
cerebral palsy. Marie Curie Cancer Research. British Heart Association. Pets in Need
of Vets! Sprinkled among going-out-of-business stores featuring the latest new
merchandise that just fell off a truck. I revelled in each opportunity to donate to
the cause. Any cause.
On my first trip to nearby Boldmere, to get a haircut, the hairdresser trusted me to
run to the ATM and be right back. I hit three charity shops on the way. Bigger than a
breadbox? It was a bread box! Orange wood that matched our kitchen walls. I went for
it. The hairdresser could wait.
As November rolled around, we planned an American Thanksgiving dinner as an excuse
to grow our collection of dishes and furniture. Would we have enough chairs? You
could fake some things, but people had to sit somewhere. The e-mail invitation made it
clear that the evening was bring-your-own-chair, but would our guests remember?
Back to the Resettlement Shop. Just to look. Just in case. After circling the
sofas and bookcases, I rounded the corner, and there they were. Two perfect blonde
wood chairs, with back spindles and legs painted the same shiny blue as our placemats
and the rims on our dishes. £12 each.
I hesitated. The memory of the elusive blue casserole came rushing back. I brought
Tony to look at them, just to make sure. He gasped—they were so perfect. Okay, not
perfect. The scrapes in the blue paint would show. They were flawed. They needed to
be touched up. They needed—us!
We knew what to do. Giving £24 and our name to the astonished volunteer behind the
cash register, I said, “We’ll be back!”
Off to Wilkinson’s (read K-mart) for the best selection of paints. To the taxi
stand to enlist support. We shared our insiders’ knowledge with the driver: The back
entrance, for junkies bringing or buying merchandise too big to drag across the front
sidewalk. We pulled up, rang the bell, said the secret word and marched in to claim
our chairs. We swooped them up along with a Pyrex baking dish and, for the perfect
Thanksgiving, a relish tray. Back into the taxi, and we’re off!
Time to quit. We had enough furniture. We’d proved that we could host a sit-down
Thanksgiving dinner for nine, as long as two bring chairs and the one who forgot agrees
to sit on an end table.
But last week, I was drawn back in. Unwittingly, Tony tossed me my greatest
challenge: “For work I have to wear either a white or a blue shirt, dark pants, and a
dark tie. Can we go shopping?” Shopping? Pre-Christmas crowds at Birmingham’s premier
mall, the Bullring, danced in my head. Pay retail?! Who did he think we were?
My husband’s sizes scratched on a scrap of paper, a stop at the ATM, and I was off.
I hit all three local stores and came out with just a tie. But that was warm-up. I
had my sources. Bus pass in hand, I jumped a 905 to Wylde Green. Down a side street
from Sainsbury’s, tucked between the Drink Store and Bedroom Suites, another
Resettlement Shop. Smaller, more discreet; not as welcoming as my regular. Only the
pros knew it was there.
Emerging triumphant, I texted Tony: “2 blue shirts, one tie. £4. On to
Erdington.” First, St. Giles Hospice. Nothing. (But nice furniture.) Across the
street to the Scope store. Another white shirt, designer; £4. Next, the Store for the
Deaf, then the bus to Erdington. Two pairs of pants! Another tie! “Here’s your
receipt,” the volunteer said, as I handed over 50p. “In case he wants to return it,”
she laughed. I laughed back. We shared the moment.
I had peaked. My husband had clothes for work, our dinner parties were exquisitely
outfitted, our apartment was fully furnished. For about £100 in 10 weeks. Time to
stop for tea.
