Jenny Sheets
Meet Jenny Sheets!
Jenny Sheets has split her life between the Fargo-Moorhead area and Montana, which means she knows I-94 far too well and exactly how far she can stretch the gas tank until running out (the off-ramp to Beach, ND, to be exact.) She currently lives in Moorhead, MN with her husband and three-year-old son, Henry Danger. She’s trying to adopt a puppy but needs to convince her husband that it’s as good an idea as having a baby during the pandemic. Each month, Jenny will bring her perspective to Fargo Monthly on a meandering topic of her choosing: childhood memories, Fargo favorites, a nagging gripe, illogical opinions, something from a dream, new obsessions, or all of the above at the same time. If you want to praise her writing and quick wit, you can find her in person trail running by the river, biking, stuffing her face at BernBaum’s, or sipping beers on a patio.
Jenny talks the stories, connections, and inspiration of secondhand things.
There’s an art to thrifting. It’s not for everyone. It can sometimes mean hours of driving from garage sale to garage sale or going cross-eyed as you sift through dozens of shirts at the thrift store. But when someone puts in the time and is able to achieve an elevated state of patience and meditation, the rewards are plentiful.
My mom instilled a deep understanding of thrifting in my brother and I at a young age. As a family, we had garage sale circuits nearly every summer weekend. The passenger, usually my mom, or my brother and I when we were older, held newspaper classifieds in one hand and guided the driver, always my dad, with the other. We mapped out our day depending on the sales we had circled in pencil earlier that morning. My parents were suckers for ‘Antiques’ or ‘Collectibles’ whereas I circled any ad that claimed, ‘Lots of books.’
Then, the tween and teen years hit and I refused to have anything to do with ‘second hand.’ I wanted brand new, squeaky clean, fresh from the factory clothes, shoes, and anything else that touched my delicate teenage hands. Did I always get my way? Of course not (thank you, mom and dad). My thrifting days took an unfortunate pause as I navigated self-conscious hormones and pined over clothing catalogs I could never afford.
Alas! Thrifting returned in college thanks to one glorious item: the most bitchin’ winter jacket to ever grace the land. My mom gave me (after I found it in the back of the attic) her old bright red, vintage, zip-up, feather-down jacket. It looked like something straight out of a 1970s magazine ad for a ski resort or cigarettes. I didn’t care. After I suddenly discovered other decades (as every teenager does) I started perusing thrift stores with my friends, finding bell-bottom jeans, fur-lined coats, Moon Boots (seriously!), and gobs of old costume jewelry. Unlike the mall or a catalog, I could stretch the few dollars I earned babysitting into full wardrobes—and I had fun doing it.
While visiting thrift stores became a weekly routine for me after that point, I can’t say garage sales came as easily. As a moody teenager, I spent most Saturdays sleeping until long after most garage sales packed up for the day. For many years I wondered how my parents could let me sleep so late. Now, as a parent, I can picture them peacefully drinking coffee on the weekend while the kids slept in. Bliss.
Garage sale-ing picked up after college when my husband and I lived in Montana. We spent weekends biking around town from sale sign to sale sign. Without an agenda or classified ad to follow, we casually floated in and out of people’s lives reflected in the items ready for new homes. Instead of hunting for a new pair of jeans or Moon Boots, I found relaxation in slowly studying the accouterments people gathered to accentuate their homes and lives over the years. Handmade quilts, porcelain dolls, first-edition books, weed wackers, and tackle boxes—items that had meant something to someone, now three dollars. Two, if you bargain. We found peace in slowing down, not allowing ourselves to feed into the cultures of ‘fast fashion’ and ‘consume and toss.’
I have developed such a love for thrifting it may border on obsession. If I have downtime, even twenty minutes, I swing into a thrift store to catch a glimpse into people’s past lives. I can’t drive past a garage sale without stopping, or at the very least ‘creeper crawling’ by. I’m rarely looking for anything in particular; in fact, it’s far more enjoyable if I’m not. When I least expect it, I just may stumble upon a hidden Hall and Oates album or a turquoise-studded belt that I never knew I needed. But, I only find the treasures if my eyes are open, and I give myself a few extra minutes to wander.
As far as I’m concerned, thrifting should be an Olympic sport. Lucky for the rest of us, we can compete and win frequently with a little practice. After years of training, I am here to share a little advice for new thrifters:
1. Don’t go looking for something specific. Ever. That’s like saying you’re going to start jogging and you sign up for a run across the Mojave Desert. Ease into it. Loosen your shoulders. If you need direction, then start small. Think: pants. Or, pan. Or even broader: stuff.
2. Slow down. You may have sorted through your size of pants on the rack, but did you check the changing rooms? The end caps of the rows? What about the pile of clothes dumped behind the sporting equipment? You’re moving too fast. Also, I know you came in for pants but you should also take a minute to scan electronics and miscellaneous crafts. You never know.
3. Finally, appreciate thrifting as a reflection of your fellow neighbors and humans. Those cut-glass tumblers belonged to someone real. Same with the parenting self-help books, wedding dresses, and letterman jackets. These are memories. Sometimes discarded, yes, but sometimes let go reluctantly, maybe at the end of an era. Regardless of how they ended up on the shelf in front of you, each item carries with it a story of how it got there, and it’s now in your hands. Thrift with care.
