The Blue Hanger Chronicles; Chapter 3-My Saving Grace

Once upon a time, there lived a woman named Grace Jones. I don't mean the Grace Jones you are thinking of. This Grace Jones was born in Texas and from all accounts was a woman with an incredibly rich history.

I first discovered her after she died. The newspaper ran a story about her and as I read through the events of her life, the highlights and accomplishments, I was left with a bittersweet feeling. I was saddened by the fact that someone like her was no longer gracing this earth, but also sparked by her spunk.

Grace enrolled in college at the age of 15 and in her early 20s became a member of the Women Airforce Service Pilots, a corps of women organized in 1942 to fill the void that was left by male pilots while they served in WWII. She met her husband, Jack Jones, after flying her plane against protocol and landing her "unidentified aircraft" at the airforce base where he was captain. Greeted by full security, she donned her pumps and exited her aircraft with every ounce of self confidence and sass for which she was known.

After her pilot years, she was a highly regarded model in NYC, working with one of the top agencies.

With her keen fashion sense and experience, she and her husband settled in Salado, Texas, in the 60s and she opened a boutique. Unbelievably, this salon became legendary and incredibly exclusive. Grace was granted permission to carry designers' work that not many other salons could garner. Clients would fly in from around the world, land on the helipad outside of the salon and then be escorted upstairs to view and shop from her couture collection of clothing.

One morning, as I plowed my way through the piles of clothes at The Blue Hanger, I reached in and pulled out a simple, black cocktail dress.

Instantly, I suspected the dress to be vintage, so I knew I would place it in my shopping cart for further inspection. When you find something that gives you that spark of excitement while thrift shopping, you are always a bit fearful to give the item a closer look. More often than not, there is always a stain or flaw that is beyond repair.

As I investigated this dress, I realized it was in terrific shape.

The dress, in and of itself, was exquisite. It was a black, wool blend, halter-style cocktail dress. The front came up and fastened behind the neck, leaving a breathtaking and risque backless cut. The skirt was slightly above the knee, with a partial wrap style to it. My heart ached knowing that it would never fit me, and even if it did, I no longer had the body to pull off such a glamorous and daring style.

I then checked the tag. My heart skipped a beat when I saw that the dress was by Halston, but also had a "Grace Jones Salado" tag underneath it. Could this be? I had actually found a dress that had hung in the incredible boutique I had only recently read about but had developed a particular soft spot for in my heart. I was thrilled! I paid $1.25 for the dress and headed home to decide what to do with it.

As much as I wanted to keep the dress, I knew I had to share it with someone who could actually wear and enjoy it. I borrowed my neighbor's teenage daughter, had her model it, and I took pictures so that I could place it for sale on eBay. My hope was that I could at least get $100 for the dress.

All of the money I make when I sell things on eBay goes into my own savings account and is how I pay for all of the girls' trips I make. Last May, my friends and I had several places we wanted to visit, and I needed a way to pay for it all.

My listing started at $99.99, with me truly being content with the hope that one meager person might see the potential in this dress and appreciate its history. Immediately, I had several "watchers" on the listing. About midway through the auction, someone sent me a message asking if they could "buy it now" for $350. Everyone I told this to thought I was crazy for not taking that offer, but my instinct said to wait and see how the auction played out.

When all was said and done, I sold the dress to a woman in Dallas for $482. My little black, Halston cocktail dress from Grace Jones' salon in Salado, Texas, for which I had only paid $1.25, sold for almost $500. It was unbelievable and amazing.

A few months ago, while reading the newspaper one lazy, Sunday morning, I came across an article about a house for sale in Salado, Texas. I immediately recognized it as a house that Chris and I had driven by and stopped to admire and dream about someday living in. It was an O'Neil Ford house that was built for and lived in by Grace Jones! Again, my heart skipped a beat and I began plotting how we could afford to move into such an amazing house owned by an equally amazing woman. So far, it is not meant to be, although the house is STILL for sale...so I'm not giving up just yet.

As far as my Blue Hanger purchase and eBay sale, I know that luck like that comes few and far between, if ever again. It was sweet serendipity.

But at least for a wonderfully thrilling moment in the world of thrift and trash, my saving Grace came through.

The Blue Hanger Chronicles; Chapter 2-Oh No, She Didn't!

As you know, I'm a Blue Hanger junkie. I love it. I'm there.

To many of you, I'm sure it'd be an awful place to be, a hell on Earth truly.

I can say this with all certainty. It's amusing to me, by the way, that I am quite eager to make the place I love so much seem like such an awful hellhole for the rest of you.

Really, it is. But I guess I can stand the heat.

Here are some bonafide things I've witnessed and as I did, I thought to myself..."oh no, she didn't!".

This first one has happened so many times, I can't even begin to consider a number. Many moms shop at the Blue Hanger with their kids. Many moms obviously leave their diaper bags in the car or possibly at home. I cannot begin to speculate. What I probably should have said a half dozen times, if only my gag reflex weren't in overdrive is.."CHANGE YOUR KIDS FREAKING DIAPER!!".

I'm sorry, but the notion of buying someone's second hand clothing is tolerable to me.
I can go with the flow...maybe some chick sweated in this shirt or spilled some sauce on it. No biggie, really, in the grand scheme of things. I cannot, though, shop with the stench of soiled diaper in the air. I'm already overlooking the stained floor, the less than stellar ambiance, the rickety shopping equipment. The last thing I need is some crying baby in a cart next to me, reeking of fouled diaper, as I frantically search for designer cast offs! Get a diaper, some wipes, and get the hell out of my way!

The second thing I've witnessed isn't really a big deal to me, as a mom of three, but even still, when it happens in public, I'm always apt to do a double take. I"m sure my eyes bug out a bit before I catch myself and regain composure. Several times, babies have been fussing, and moms have picked them up, right there in the aisle and lifted their shirts to let the babies nurse. I'm ALL about the breastfeeding. It truly is amazing. My boobs were working , bonafide National Geographic caliber breasts for sure, but again, when I'm searching for the diamond in the rough, I'm NOT expecting to see the 'motherload' right there in front of me! Find a private spot for God's sake. Nursing as you stand in front of the clothes I am dying to dig through isn't cool with me.

One of the most recent things I've witnessed should have probably sealed my demise at the Blue Hanger and the fact that I have since returned should prove to you how addicted I am, but this is truly something I experienced firsthand. As I was shopping, I looked over and saw a toddler in a buggy crying. Maybe her face was dirty and her bangs unevenly cut, as if she turned her head just as the scissors reached her forehead. I noticed her nose was running; thick and green and gooey and gross. About the time I realized that, the mom offhandedly reached over and wiped the snot from the baby's nose with her hands and then...brace yourself....FLUNG it onto the ground! Without missing a beat, she reached back into the pile of clothes to keep digging for her treasures. And with that, I think I puked a bit in my mouth that day. I was utterly flabbergasted. Yet, I shopped on.

Every time I'm there, I say to myself..."Oh no, she didn't" and more often than not...I realize I'm talking about myself for hanging around.

And still I shop.

Musings: The Blue Hanger Chronicles; Chapter 1-Sabrina Suprises

A few days ago, I confessed my love for other people's junk. I don't mean the assets in their jeans, I am talking about the consumer waste they cast aside with reckless abandon.

There are several avenues for getting my fix, but the most satisfying, the place where this thrift addict can get her quickest high, is a store here in Austin called The Blue Hanger.

The Blue Hanger is actually a Goodwill outlet store. Yes, there exists an outlet store for Goodwill. I know, many of you are shocked that there is a level of retail below that of your run of the mill Goodwill. I can assure you, there is. And it is my mecca.

The Blue Hanger is a huge warehouse with sticky, concrete floors and shoddy fluorescent lighting that flickers intermittently. The 'wares' are dumped onto long, wooden tables on wheels and then lined up to form aisles. There are tables of clothing and then tables of well, everything else. The shopping carts sport wobbly wheels and without a doubt more germs than the CDC would be able to identify in one afternoon.

One of my close friends shares my passion for thrifting and isn't bothered in the least that what we are digging through came from other people and places and other people's places, if you catch my drift. We have a neighbor though, who, despite admitting that thrift shopping is the most cost effective way to clothe her children, simply will not set foot into the store. She is grossed out by the entire experience. Her name is Sabrina.

My thrifting friend and I accidentally created a game, a bit of an inside joke that we laugh about while we are shopping. When we dig through the tables, if we find something incredibly detestable and aren't afraid to pick it up, we grab the item gingerly with our thumb and forefinger, hold it up, and say out loud to one another..."Sabrina!".

In the years I've been going to the Blue Hanger, I am both delighted and disgusted in equal measure to share with you some of our "Sabrina" finds.

In no particular order or level of offensiveness, we have found banana peels, used bandaids, half empty soda cans, moldy shoes, Halloween candy from the days of plastic masks and highly flammable jumpsuits, wadded up Kleenex in coat pockets, and even condoms, thankfully still in the wrapper!

Today, as I toiled through the piles of clothes I found an unused OB tampon. Seriously, I had no idea how tiny those things are. In another table was a medication capsule of some sort. I also found a Swisher Sweet cigar that might have come from my grandfather's polyester leisure suit.

As it fell towards me, I just recoiled, said to myself..."Sabrina" and smiled.

Musings: And So It Goes...

So, I found it highly amusing that one mere morning after my "note" about garage sales, I found myself presented with the gift of the neighborhood garage sale.

At precisely 8:28 this morning our doorbell rang. Too early for the post, but who the fuck could it be?

Lo and behold, it was Jared, the 11 year old from across the street, cheerfully reminding us that today was garage sale day in our neighborhood. True to our sick style, we all scurried to get breasts corralled in bras (okay that was only me), everyone else ran to throw on shorts and t-shirts so that we'd be ready to go. We quickly digested cereal and loaded into Chris' truck to scour the neighborhood.

The kids immediately spied a house that had a varied assortment of kids toys splayed out upon tarps and second hand quilts. One quick glance and I knew it was bonafide crappola. I immediately retreated to the car to call my sister, leaving Chris to deal with what I considered unnecessary nonsense.

You see, it's perfectly fine for me to want meaningless shit to bring into the house, but when the kids do, oh my..I can't even deal with it. I think we left that house with a remote control car, two annoying lazer guns, and a retractable telescope.

Anyway, I digress. Knowing that I had JUST confessed my deepest secret to you all, I was SO hoping to strike gold today and bring back a gem that proved, in flesh and blood, that my obsession was noble and worthwhile, or at the very least interesting.

And yet, nothing! The only things that even remotely got my pulse racing was a two room tent (oh the fun mom and dad could have just one zippered sheet of fabric away) and a child sized baton. Problem is, I really don't care for camping and the baton just conjured up memories of thick, thighed twirlers in nude colored panty hose and lipstick in shades of red that should have been discontinued before the space program took flight. Definitely not worth the money.

So, for all my glorified spewage yesterday about other people's trash, I came up completely empty handed. There were no fabulously vintage dresses that some bored dentist's wife wore as she flirted with her husband's golf buddy. No prom dresses that lost their virginity along with the anxious teen who squeezed herself into it.

I didn't even find any funky smelling Tupperware!

Oh, well...maybe next time.

Musings: My Deep Dark Secret

I have a deep, dark secret. It lives within me and finally I feel like it is time I shared it with you all. Take a deep breath, exhale, steady yourself and try to think of your most special memory involving me. I want you to have good thoughts of me as I make this confession.

Ready?

Here goes.

I am addicted to other people's trash. You know that saying "one man's trash is another man's treasure" ? Well, yeah, it was written with me specifically in mind.

Antiques are exquisite and eclectic and so much fun. But, they feel complicated and expensive and maybe even a tad upper crust to me. I wouldn't turn down a great antiquing jaunt, but truly that sort of exploration of someone's leftovers is beyond my scope of interest and expertise.

Estate sales are great too. Walking through the actual home where all of the castaway items lived with their now absent owner provides a huge rush. But estate sales are complicated because attending them requires a level of organization of which I have yet to achieve.

I'm more of a freestyle kind of gal. I love the impromptu thrill of driving home on a Saturday morning from a leisurely jog around the lake and spotting a day-glo scrap of poster board tacked to a wooden stake. Black markered arrows on the signs that point the way to the sale are like treasure maps to me. X marks the spot of ecstasy.

A yard full of someone else's castoffs elevates my heart rate. My pulse quickens and I feel the magnetic pull to stop my car and peruse the piles of musty books, tacky art and yellowed, mismatched Tupperware with odors that are not meant to be identified.

Near bliss can be achieved if there are clothes to dig through, especially any of the vintage variety. I have a genuine love affair with the notion that cast off clothing can tell a story. When I find interesting clothing, I immediately create the back story of why the particular piece was purchased, what the owner looked like and how the event where it was worn went down. It's truly a thrill to me.

I even love the smell that accompanies old clothes. It's not the sickening stench of mothballs, it's more of a subtle mustiness that permeates the fibers, even after being laundered at my house. It's as if the odor 's presence lingers as a constant reminder that this piece of clothing deserves a level of respect that can't be awarded to mass marketed crap that you can buy at any department store these days.

Fortunately for me, I discovered a store that caters to my secret. The clothes there are rotated on a daily basis, so I could feasibly shop there everyday and never see the same thing twice. This store also carries all sorts of other trash that easily provides hours of entertainment as you walk through and search for those certain gems and treasures you know are hidden somewhere within the piles.

This is my secret, my heaven on earth, if you will.

In coming posts, I will share stories of my experiences at the store. I have seen some pretty amazing sights as I got my "trash fix".

So, there, I've said it. I would gladly dig through your cast offs. Just be careful...you never know what story I might create about those parachute pants you once wore!

Musings: This Woman's Work

The room is dark, save for the glimmer of light creeping in from an adjoining closet or bathroom with the door ajar. The air is still and heavy with anticipation, and even moreso, expectation.

In the middle of the space there is a bed and perched atop is the woman of the hour...of the moment, truly. Curious, hesitant, but loving eyes fall upon her, begging forgiveness for being so helpless in her time of need. All present know, though, that this is her work, she must be the one to do the job.

This room is not new to me. I have been there before, on more than one occasion, and will be there again. I have been the woman on the bed. But I have also possessed the heart and eyes, the soul of the onlooker, the person who felt like there was something more to be done, but in that moment knew that it was not my work to do.

It was my sister who first brought to my attention how life and death are strangely similar experiences. When my first child was born, Amy was at my side, along with Chris, my mother and my mother in law. She witnessed firsthand the energy that is exuded as a child is welcomed into this world. Amy was also the first person very close to me who was present when a loved one passed away. When our dear friend, Miss Nelle, was in her last hours of life, Amy joined Miss Nelle's family and held vigil as the night wore on. She died beautifully and peacefully surrounded by loved ones.

The next morning, as Amy recounted the experience, she likened it to the feeling she experienced when my son was born. In those dark rooms, where each woman rested upon her bed, there were moments of sheer joy, fear of the unknown, tears spilling forth...and a sense of energy that reminds one that there is something bigger and greater in this world and beyond.

I was in the room when Amy's first child was born and I know those feelings of fear, joy, and wonder at how great and large life can be. I also knew that I had to stand on the sidelines and let her do her job. With much hard work and determination, she gave birth to my beautiful nephew.

Likewise, I was in the room when my mom passed away, nearly five years ago. Her room was dark and quiet, save for her labored breathing. Loved ones tiptoed in and out, whispering encouraging words and gently stroking her hands. As sad as I was, I did feel fear, joy and wonder at how great and large life can be. And, in that moment, I felt the surge of something bigger. I also knew she had work to do. Letting go of life is a heady job, not for the fearful or timid. In that moment, my mother was the most courageous person I have ever known. With an unbelievable grace, as she took her labored, last breaths on this earth, she did her work and pushed forth a new life, if you will.

Both experiences were beautiful, moving and so much larger than anything I could try to articulate here on a gray, melancholy Sunday afternoon.

And in those dark rooms, those moments of life and death, I learned that my best course of action is to stand by their side, stroke their hands or their heads and let the women I love do their work.

Musings: Saying Goodbye

Last night the phone rang. It was after nine, so I knew it had to be my sister. Indeed, it was. The first thing I heard after saying hello was "You aren't going to believe the email I just got." The sender was a friend of hers from high school, but not one that my sister has remained close to through the years. They've recently reconnected on Facebook and this is the message my sister received.

"I have the strangest story to tell you, my best friend and I collect obituaries. One day she called me and read the most fabulous one I have ever heard. It was the story of this girl and her wonderful life. I cannot remember all the details but it was beautifully written and I remember that she always loved to have a round kitchen table so she could fit more people around it. I cried for this woman I had never met because after hearing her story I felt like I did. Something in it clicked with me and I called her back and asked her if this lady had two daughters, one named Amy and one named Macy and I guess you know that she did, it was your mom."

As Amy finished reading it to me, I felt a lump in my throat, tears stinging my eyes. I wrote that obituary in the aftermath of my mom's death, still numb and unbelieving that she was gone. We were at my sister's house with sadness permeating the chaos that always ensues when our families are together. How I focused enough to record a single coherent thought is beyond me. I had two young kids and was 8 months pregnant with my third. Amy had her stepdaughter, her son, and was also 7 months pregnant at the time. To say we were a mess is an understatement.

While I don't collect obituaries, I do read them. When they are written to include details about someone's life, I find them interesting and far more personal. In some small way, it eases my sadness about their passing if I've learned a special something about their life. This holds true whether I know the person or not. When I wrote my mom's obituary, despite my tears and confusion, I wanted hers to possess a few glimmers into who she was. I'd like to think I came close to hitting the mark. What follows is a condensed form of the obituary that I scribbled out for my mom, one of the greatest loves of my life, the day after she died.

"Christine Davis Tucker, age 58, of Elysian Fields, passed away peacefully in her home on November 26, 2003 after a courageous and valiant battle with cancer. She was surrounded by loved ones and left this world with her signature grace and beauty.

Chris was the wife of Bill Tucker and the couple enjoyed many special times together after rediscovering love later in their lives. The two enjoyed spending time fishing, being outdoors, cooking and hosting friends and family at their home overlooking a pond.

Born and raised in Minden, LA, she was the fifth child and baby of the family. Her parents were Bruce and Kate Davis. Her childhood was spent creating fond and somewhat adventurous memories with many special people on "Goat Hill", the neighborhood in which she grew up.

A lifelong educator, Chris devoted herself to her children and was committed to excellence in both the schools and lives she touched. From her beginnings as a young, bright eyed kindergarten teacher, to her amazing work with children with special needs, she never backed away from any challenge. Her dedication and continual pursuit for growth is evident in the degrees she obtained while working full time and raising a family. At the time of her retirement she was Superintendent of Elysian Fields ISD but had also successfully accomplished classroom teaching, special education coordination, counseling, and leading other educators as an elementary principal.

Chris lived her life with a headstrong and fierce love for family. Mealtime gatherings around the dinner table (always a round table because more could squeeze in) with grand kids dashing about underfoot brought "Grandmother" much joy. Whether it was a trip to to the Dollar Store or an afternoon jaunt to the "boats" in Bossier city, joy and contentment were never hard for Chris to achieve. Simple pleasures such as reading the newspaper, dancing and humming around the kitchen, picking blackberries from the garden, talking to her girls on the phone everyday, or playing Solitaire on the computer were the things that Chris wanted in life. And, up until these last few weeks, she had it all-love, happiness, and a healthy, growing family."

Omitted are the housekeeping details regarding the funeral arrangements, as well as acknowledgments and heartfelt thank you's to the people who were so dear to us during her illness and that time in our lives.

How in the world can you capture the spirit, the soul, the essence of a human being in one afternoon, with kids howling and running about, tears spilling forth, and the realization that you've just lost one of the most pivotal people in your life? I'm not sure what I achieved, but I'd like to hope I did my mom a bit of justice when I wrote those words. And, I guess for Amy's old friend, I didn't do half bad.

Musings: Dancing

Wednesday, November 26, 2008 will mark the five year anniversary of my mom's passing. In that time, so much has happened.

My sister and I both have given birth to two beautiful and amazing little boys, both named in honor of my mother.

We have had career successes and life changes that have been difficult, but equally as rewarding.

Amy and I are rich with love and with families who, although trying at times, bring us much joy.

November is notoriously hard for each of us and even five years since Mom left us, we still feel the sting of her absence. Neither of us are acutely aware of what is going on, but this pervasive funk creeps over us, we feel agitated and annoyed, moody and melancholy and then it will dawn on us what time of year it is and that truly there is a hole in our hearts that cannot be mended, no matter the passage of time.

In the aftermath of her passing, we scrambled together and created this slideshow to present at her memorial service. I share it here with you all, just so you might see a glimmer of the woman who was, is, our mother.

We miss her and love her more than ever.

She loved this song and I can't listen to it now without shedding tears. I also take the words to heart.

And with that I ask, may I have this dance?


http://ckauffman.vollgas.net/memorial/chris/chris_wmvHQ.shtml

Musings: Bee Knits Is The Bees Knees

When Davis was three, maybe four, he called our neighborhood convenience store the "bee knits" store. We don't keep sodas in our house as a general rule, but once in a while Chris would go to the convenience store to grab a Diet Dr. Pepper. The boys would pile into the Suburban with him and each would be allowed to spend $1. It was a great lesson in decision making and gave tremendous insight into how each of our children's minds worked. I usually sat out during these sordid sojourns, consequently missing out on all of the amazing aspects of the convenience store experience.

My tank was empty today and I stopped at a bee knits store to get some gas and coffee. As I stood in line, waiting to pay, I was overwhelmed by the sheer magnificence that IS the convenience store.

Granted, I have been into some despicable, horrible places which should be ashamed to open their doors to the public, but this spot did not fall into that category.

As I scanned the store, I was flooded with the urge to completely let loose and explore every wanton desire my heart experienced. My senses were on overload, as was my impulse control.

The convenience store holds just about every sinful item I've ever dreamed of purchasing, save those random, extravagances like a red Kitchen Aid mixer or matching Louis Vuitton luggage.

Five minutes in a convenience store and I could buy a 20 oz. Big Red, a king size Butterfinger, some trashy tabloid like Us Weekly, banana scented condoms, a Slim Jim, and some sort of fizzy hangover concoction which would probably taste icky whether or not I'd hit the bottle the night before.

Another thing I love about the convenience store is that it caters to all types, all socio-economic levels. The businessman in his BMW needs to top of his tank just like the air conditioner repair guy in his beat up work van. Both can converge inside the smoke tinged, plastic, shrink wrapped, day old coffee smelling store to purchase their gas and whatever little tidbit catches their fancy.

When I was a child, my family would stop at roadside convenience stores to fill up with gas and we were allowed to pick out treats for a snack on the road. The thought of that indulgence still stands out in my mind.

Today, standing in line to check out at that convenience store, it felt like the closest thing to heaven on earth I've experienced in a long time. I wanted to just make time stand still and peruse every aisle, gingerly examining every over priced, mini packaged, unnecessary item on the cold, metal shelves.

Lately, it's the little things. Today, the bee knits store was truly the bees knees

Musings: Once

Once, long ago, there lived a girl who couldn't bring herself to believe her good fortune. She believed herself to be unworthy and undeserving of being loved. For as long as she could remember, she felt odd, different, too unlike anyone else to attract the love she so desired. And yet, she never gave up the hope of finding someone who could see her for all that she thought she might could be.

Once, long ago, there lived a boy who had a gift. His special magic involved viewing life in slow motion and not letting real time blur the images before him. He heard things that others couldn't hear, saw things others couldn't see.

One day the boy saw the girl. Really saw her. He heard her that day as well. As life rushed by, with people moving in and out and through the moments, he stood still and observed. Before him stood a creature unlike he had seen before. She was different. He wanted to know her and find out what made her stand apart.

Once, long ago, the boy cradled the girl in his arms on a warm, summer night. The girl felt lost, scared, fearful of losing her new found love. Tears slowly spilled down the girl's cheeks as the boy softly, barely whispered these words into her ear,

"On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are how fragile we are"

At first, she was confused. But then she realized that he had carefully chosen those words to tell her that he knew she was special, knew that she would need to be protected and cherished. His arms tightened around her and her heart melted.

Once, long ago, a boy took a chance and a girl dared to dream.