Thrifting with the Snow Queen
by M. J. Pettit
Saturdays are reserved for charity shops and thrift stores. On this, Marnie and I agree. No matter the troubles the weekdays bring, on Saturdays we always make the time to ride the 142 bus to Didsbury, the choicest hunting ground in our vicinity.
Our day starts at the teashop off the high street. Sitting at our table by the front window, we share a pot of the house's Rooibos blend. My cup quickly emptied, I consult the sediment at the bottom. Nothing. But then, even when I soothsaid for a living, tasseography was hardly my forte.
I get up and peruse the adjacent bookroom, leaving Marnie to finish her tea. A familiar mustiness fills my nostrils. They keep this place damper than these treasures deserve. I crouch to leaf through a shelf of yellowed and fraying pulps, searching for the November 1971 issue of Winter Tales missing from my collection. The hunt is futile. I'm told that issue never saw print in this realm. Yet, I keep checking, hoping to get lucky and chance upon the discards left by some passing Traveler. When you possess next to everything, it's amazing what you'll cast off.
I move on to the geography section. It disappoints. Hardly changed from last week. Thumbing through the guides to local trails and canals, I take a risk on The Portals to Paradise: An Atlas. I open it at random only to find the pages static and hopelessly out of date. The 1982 edition. All those portals are now sealed. Ever since our Fall.
I find Marnie sipping the dregs of her tea. She doesn't need to ask. "Better luck next week, Balthazar. You'll find it, I'm sure."
She hands me my coat. The afternoon's a-wasting. Time we moved on to the Oxfam shop.
Marnie has her method as I've got mine. She heads straight to the display of picture frames as she always does. She opens the back of every frame and pulls out the faded, 1980s stock photo inevitably contained within. Turning the photographs over, she inspects each one for secreted messages scrawled in faded ink. Marnie hungers for any link to the old country, a word left by the still faithful, though we both know the time has come to move on and accept our new home.
I take a different tact. I drift towards the rear of the store, ignoring the racks of ratty jumpers and shoulder-padded suits. One cannot force the hunt. It begins where it begins. Besides, the greatest pleasures come from the search. Let go, keep an open mind, and providence will provide. Except when it doesn't.
Furniture is always hit or miss. Upholstery remains a decided no after the moth incident. Yet, we persist. The items manufactured in this realm possess a certain warmth, hold a certain charm. I've come to fancy those made out of cherrywood, though I tolerate genuine pine and even particleboard if the design is just right. Better than my old desk, carved from solid ice.
A triumphant Marnie finds me considering a teak nightstand for the guestroom. She holds a battered old magazine, missing its front cover. I shake my head.
Her face scrunches. "How can you tell?"
"A true connoisseur knows."
She insists on buying it for me. Marnie rewards the loyal.
