There ain’t no fleas on me.

I long for St. Vinnie’s.

You know, the Catholic thrift store that puts my money towards some things I’m way into and others things that would make my liberal-soul shake if I gave it much thought. But they have the best treasures. I have furnished my home, dressed my kids (and myself, and my partner) pretty much exclusively from St. Vinnie’s for long stretches of my life. 

And then we moved to Viroqua.

The nearest St. Vincent de Paul store is two counties away. We have second hand stores for clothes, but it just isn’t thrifting. We also have the Flea Market.

Just the name makes me itchy.

“Flea Market” conjures images of plastic bubble packs of bangle bracelets and funny smelling measuring cups, all just in from some sweatshop in China. New crap, not old crap.

So I stayed away. 

After over a year of Flea Market snobbery I finally peeked inside. That was last fall. They close all winter, but are now open again for summer, and I am sort of hooked. It ain’t St. Vinnie’s but it’s not bad. 

We popped in today and I found an amazing pink and lime green vintage table cloth for six bucks. I am going to make a skirt with it out of this book. Lupine obsessed as only a toddler can over fake apples and anything with a cow on it and Sage left with a kid-sized watering can for the garden.

And though I don’t need a plastic Canadian Mounty in my life, I was happy to see him in his $2 glory on the shelf, ready to trot (or canter, or run) into someone else’s life.


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