Barrel diving

There’s an old myth that missionaries get their clothes out of missionary barrels. It’s only partly true. They’re not picky about the kind of barrel.

Years ago, I knew a woman who had a collection of things people actually sent to her when she was working in Appalachia. Used tea bags were just one item. Used soap chips, shirts with the buttons removed, ancient bathing suits. It was hilarious. She loved showing it to women’s groups.

Growing up, second hand clothes were one of the great adventures of life. A consignment store nearby had the best wool suits and coats in town for a fraction of the retail price. Then there were the clothes handed down from older girls. My mother could barely thread a needle but other mothers did magic on the sewing machine, and eventually I reaped the benefit.

Raising my own three daughters, only the eldest had much chance of getting brand new clothes. After that, it was second or third hand passed down the line. People also gave us bags of clothes and we had huge laughs over the contents.You never had to keep anything you didn’t like, but when you found something you did like, you hadn’t spent a dime.

In Hong Kong we perfected the art of barrel diving. Why shop the pricey downtown shops when there were huge cardboard boxes of export clothing crammed little back alley shops? Tape measures hung from the ceiling. Dive in, pull out a silk shirt, check for damage, assess the value, and shell out 50 cents. Maybe you wear it only once, but it was cheap. Maybe it becomes a favorite and lasts for years. The goal was to pay as little as possible and only take the most expensive brands and fabrics.

Today the Driver and I had a “barrel” of fun. At breakfast a friend said her sister or cousin had given her bags and bags of clothes, all too small for her. “Anybody want them?” she asked. We volunteered, dropped by after lunch, and brought home three large bags.

It’s probably been ten years since we last dove into bags of clothing together. There’s a system. You pull out everything and sort it by type and piles of yes, maybe, and NO WAY. Of course, as you do this, you make many, many comments about what you pull out of the bag. You offer various pieces to each other, sometimes in jest, and sometimes in great seriousness.

Then you assess the piles and begin to pick up pieces of clothing and decide if they are worth the effort to try on. About ¼ make the grade to the actual try-on stage. More comments follow. “Nah, no shape." “Hey, looks good.” “Nasty, nasty color on you.”

In the end, we each salvaged an assortment for absolutely zero outlay of funds. Good looking jackets, shirts, skirts, pants, and some soft wooly pullovers for next winter. We even put aside a little pile for The Dreamer post-pregnancy. The leftovers, two bags full, go to charity next week.

The best part was the camaraderie of knowing we got a deal. No retail shopping could be this much fun.