The Sins of the Mothers

My mother created a horrible addiction in me at an early age. She used to haul my sister and me to the places in the woods where people had dumped their trash years before. We would pick among the debris, wary of snakes and rusty edges, to find old glass bottles and anything else that looked worthy of our attention. Other days she would take us to visit Ms. Floyd's, an old building in downtown Timmonsville that was jammed packed with ancient furniture and other people's castoffs, to search among the booty for good deals or things we could not live without. The seed was planted, the damage done. When I was a teenager, I would go back to Mrs. Floyd's and spend my carefully hoarded dollars on a wind-up, portable Victrola and records, including "Dance with a Dolly with a Hole In Her Stocking." I loved the whispery, raspy sound of the background noise on those records and the gritty feel of the needle touching down on that spinning disk. I blame my mother for making it impossible for me to drive past a pile of trash put out for early morning collection without my head swiveling around like Linda Blair's in The Exorcist. It is her fault I cannot pass by a Salvation Army, Goodwill or Thrift store without taking a quick gander. She, too, must take responsibilty for my new found addiction to E-bay. Upon her shoulders must squarely fall my quest for all things in need of slight repair or repainting, my love for the imperfection, broken,damaged thing. Thanks, Mom.
Here's the fabric I recently purchased from e-bay. I have a thing for images on fabric. I have often wished I loved subtle, sophisticated prints. Oh, well. What can I say? I love tacky, garish, and juvenile. The image at the top of the page is of a Japanese doll and a carved wooden girl holding a bird. I bought them on the way home yesterday at a thrift store. Did I mention my mother used to collect dolls?