It’s not exactly a dig store, but it’s close. I was introduced to Dirt Cheap a few years ago when our youngest was furnishing a small apartment for her first semester at Mississippi State. My Starkville cousin led the way down aisles crammed with all sorts of mostly useless items, some with damaged packaging but all neatly arranged and if not dirt cheap, pretty near it. She had obviously been there before and knew her way around. It was a good day at Dirt Cheap. We found a very cool tweed side chair in a tasteful neutral color and some bathroom accessories, all for less than $25. Her tenure at MSU lasted longer than the chair’s upholstery, but it served the purpose at a bargain price.
You’d think such an experience would convert the whole family to the bargain and thrift store life, but I’m a holdout. Not a snob, I hope, but a holdout. I blame it on Bents and Dents.
Bents and Dents was a dig store. It was located alongside Highway 43 in Greenhill, just south of the Tennessee line. Fronted by a dusty gravel parking lot, the warehouse was filled with long wobbly wooden tables piled high with all sorts of disheveled clothing and household textiles. With much more inventory than each table could accommodate, treasures hung precariously off table edges in a tousled heap of material like so many mangled body parts. If an item caught your eye, you just grabbed and pulled, rearranging the mauled heap afterward if you felt like it, or for those less civilized patrons, leaving the pile of dislodged items on the concrete floor for someone else to dig through. You could drag out all manner of towels, packs of dishcloths, t-shirts, sheet sets, and mismatched pajamas, pawing several layers deep to unearth a sought-after size or color.
Bargain-seeking women circled tables in sync, abiding by unwritten rules of dig store conduct. Counter-clockwise, not overly aggressive, patient with others, and never snatching away an item that someone else was eyeing or had a good handhold on.
Toward the back of the space was the home décor section with a large selection of ash trays, juice glasses, table lamps, and spice racks. Tabletop figurines and discontinued Home Interiors wall arrangements were hot items, but not for my mom. We might take home a discounted sheet set or collection of bamboo bowls, but everything had to have a purpose if it left with us. She loved the thrill of the hunt and the money in her handbag she always left with. I spent much of our travel time suggesting alternate roadways into Tennessee—anything but Hwy. 43.
So even today, I pretty much steer clear of Bargain Hunt or Dirt Cheap or Big Lots or any roadside thrift store. The same goes for flea markets. I’m just partial to well organized items hanging on easily accessible racks with no contention with fellow shoppers and not a lot of discussion. Even if it costs a bit more. Now that I’ve said it out loud, I realize I very well may be a shopping snob with no sense of adventure. Oh my.
But that all took a temporary turn at the Groovy Coop.
The Groovy Coop in McKinney, Texas is a cool place to shop if you’re in the market for tarot cards, off-color refrigerator magnets, or a mood ring. Incense is also a possibility, as are vinyl records and vintage clothing. The sign dangling over the awning at an off-center angle suggests the devil-may-care attitude of the management, promising free-spirited nonjudgmental entry and love for all. Peace out.
I’m not sure whose idea it was—certainly not mine—but it was a laid-back sort of morning, and the Groovy Coop just seemed to match the vibe. My little group of middle-aged ladies, having just enjoyed some overpriced cappuccino at the Coffee Fox, were feeling pretty bold on this frigid day in January, so we stepped right through that dingy glass door into the dim and overwhelmingly fragrant interior. I didn’t figure we’d be there long.
Giving the others time to check out whatever there was to check out, I began browsing through self-help books and bumper stickers and hand-knitted berets until I found myself in the vintage clothing annex. And there it was, fairly glowing amid a sea of ratty fur coats and hand-sewn smocks. Totally misplaced for its grandeur, on a nondescript metal rack in a head shop on a side street of a Dallas suburb, draped a single glittery navy-blue sequined designer dress. It was floor length with cap sleeves and a scoop neckline. Demure, but tasteful. Elegant. Not too flashy or frilly, it fairly screamed “I’m your mother-of-the-bride dress! Pick me!”
I checked the size and I checked the price, expecting something not to work. My size for only $80. And the only one on the rack.
Designed by a designer who had long ago retired or otherwise moved on, there would certainly be no chance of finding this one modeled by anyone else near the church where our youngest was getting married in a mere two months. In fact, this whole trip to Dallas had been for the purpose of getting her bridal gown fitted. Acquiring a mother-of-the-bride dress was not in the plan. Yet here it was. Staring at me in Texas. Maybe.
Dress draped over one arm, I located the lone curtained dressing room just past the pottery and ginger jar collection. On the back wall was a huge Elvis poster, conveniently serving as a landmark for the dressing room. All the underaged clerk had to say, never looking up from his reading material, was “Just look for Elvis.” And so I did.
Without even requiring hemming, the dress fit like a charm. Just like Cinderella’s slipper. I’m far past the age and nowhere near the future magnitude of Cinderella, but it was a special moment, nonetheless. At least it was for me and Elvis, who oversaw the whole thing. Literally. Stepping out of the dressing room into view of my daughter and her future mother-in-law and aunt-in-law, I expected somebody to point out an obvious splash of discolored stain or maybe a ripped-off section of sequins that I had somehow overlooked in the dimly lit dressing room wall mirror, but only got encouragement to go for it.
I have to admit, the thrill of finding such an unexpected bargain in such an unexpected place was pretty intense. I suppose it was the thrift shop high. Or in this case, the vintage hippie store high.
All the future bride had to say about it was “It doesn’t smell musty, does it?” Sniffing the cap sleeve, I concluded that it smelled just fine but I assured her I’d run it through the cleaner’s first. I might not can help a lot of things, but I refuse to be a musty smelling mom.
So the dress left with me, inspiring the groom’s mom to match the saving spree by recycling a dress worn by her sister years ago. She hadn’t worn it since, and no one would remember if it showed up at yet another wedding in another state. She effectively began our new relationship by one-upping my $80 bargain, but I don’t mind. I really don’t. It’s not a competition and I hardly noticed.
Between the two moms, exactly $80 was spent on our apparel, which is pretty cool. Admittedly, it hardly offset the other wedding costs which were nowhere near bargain basement, but it is a bright spot and a bragging point. My only bragging point, but I’ll take it.
So I AM a bargain shopper.
Groovy.
