Though I often blame it on my mother's Chinese nose for a bargain (the trait that filled my childhood home with spotted bananas and day-old doughnuts from the supermarket), my obsession with junking is a part of me. I own it, and while some would quickly deem it a bad habit, I know enough about myself to know that it is a hobby that brings me an awful lot of joy. My heart sings and my serotonin rises as I pull away with my used piece of ... uh, whatever. My treasure. My prize.

My love of junk started a long time ago, when even as a child I would spend hours and hours during the long days of summer rifling through my parents' basement, a disorganized wonderland of junk of all sorts that resulted from the basic law of gravity - what my parents took down those steps rarely ever came back up. Amidst the cool dampness of the cinder block walls, a world opened up. There were piles and piles of National Geographic magazines that my dad had meticulously organized by the year, and I would stretch out on the concrete floor and look at pictures of sunsets, polar bears and beautiful brown-skinned natives until time for dinner.

On other days I would explore two black trunks and numerous black garbage bags that held my mother's old clothes - items she was saving either for memory's sake or for one much-discussed day when she would lose the weight she gained during her pregnancies. They were an old mixture of 1960s American mini-skirts, go-go boots and flowery Asian silky clothes still bearing Chinese characters on the labels that she had brought over from Hong Kong. I would happily strip and dress up in my favorite garb, again and again, never ceasing to be awed by the fact that my mother must have, at one time, been skinny.

It was this love of odd, "vintage" clothes that led me first to garage sales, then later to thrift stores, flea markets and auctions. When I discovered that I could buy what I thought was the coolest dress around for a dollar, it wasn’t just the dress that was sold.

And so junking became a part of my life. In college I used it like therapy; like so many people discover about shopping in general, there is a certain emotional phenomenon that takes place when you clear your mind and just let yourself shop. I used this method frequently to relieve the stress of studying, and every Tuesday and Friday I would drive across town to East Knoxville to rummage through the aisles of my favorite thrift store. The visits eventually took on a ritualistic nature, and I would become extremely superstitious about signs that would tell me if I would find a deal or not. I started counting the red lights along the way, looked for blue cars, and, after I got there, always, always, always, helped hang stuff back up that had been fallen off the hangers to build up good karma.

Now I am a regular patron of all the thrift stores in the region - from the Salvation Army and Goodwills of Asheville to the tiny PAWS thrift store in Bryson City. I know the ladies who volunteer at each, and they know me. My daughter is also familiar with each one, remembers where the toy sections are and happily plays while I shop, knowing that if she is good and picks up her mess she can have any one toy that she wants, something mommy never says at Wal-mart or Toys ‘R’ Us.

Granted, sometimes in my love of a bargain, I buy something that I really don't need, or perhaps that doesn't really fit, which isn't really a bargain, but I just can't help myself. I justify that the money always goes "to a good cause," and, averaging about a $20 per week on my hobby, I happily rejoice in the fact that I'm contributing over a thousand dollars a year to my favorite charities.

Furthermore, the same things I bought will inevitably get boxed up and go back from whence they came, almost as part of a rental program, when my daughter or I get tired of them. Recycling works!

The same theory applies to the local auctions, like the Almond Trading Post down at the bottom of the Nantahala Gorge, though there the junking becomes much more capitalistic, with people intent on making a profit instead of giving to charity. It's a community of junkers, led by a man who has dedicated his life to the art of junking, the "Junk Man" Fred Burrell. After listening to the sounds of local bluegrass artists and eating a greasy plate of fries, you can buy anything from flats of tomatoes to Civil War memorabilia. Fred and his staff are natural entertainers, and the auction becomes a play with established one-liners like "Now, I wouldn't lie to you folks" and "He'll never use it" where junk lovers can sit, do sit, for hours and hours every Friday and Saturday night. The same glass jug you saw go last week for $10 might be resold the next week for 20 or for two. Like the stock market, professional junking has its risks and rewards.

And like the million-dollar broker on Wall Street, I too jump at the prospect of a bargain and revel in the short-lived adrenaline rush that follows the thrill of the hunt. To get my fix again and again, I shop again and again in what is admittedly a materialistic bacchanalia.

But at $2 here and $5 there, it seems a small price to pay for pleasure these days. My name is Esther Godfrey. I am a junker.

(Esther Godfrey is a college English teacher and a student. She can be reached at egodfrey@utk.edu)

 

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