Devonne Brown

“Let’s go to Goodwill,” said Ian. “I need to get Mom a birthday present.” He knew there was nothing I wanted more than an antique butter dish with a lid, and the best place to find it was at a thrift shop. Goodwill came to his mind first.

Thrift shops carried specialty items. Like the rhinestone studded cashmere white sweater set, or the beaded chiffon evening gown I bought for less than five dollars each. They weren’t the run of the mill hand me downs though. Not like the clothes that were sent to me in big garbage bags when the boys were little from friends and neighbors culling their closets of their twins’ cast offs. 

The big garbage bags were full of sturdy, well worn pants and stained shirts that fit the boys. Some fit better than others, but they were all appreciated and divided into piles of keep and cast away. The cast aways were sent to other families. The clothes were soft and broken in, and required no special care in the laundry. The new stuff Grandma sent for visitors and visits was clean and ready to wear at a moment’s notice, just like when I was a kid. 

Somehow the hand me downs became the favorites. The softness of the used quality, well loved and well worn, made it cozy from the start. Even at the crawling stage, the boys let their favorites be known and sought them out. 

I laughed at them bringing me their favorite pants from the laundry basket to put them on their tiny bottoms. Ian especially had a well developed fashion sense as soon as he figured out what pants were at ten months old. Nick wasn’t far behind. Tug of war wasn’t uncommon. 

If I didn’t get the laundry put away quickly enough, they’d want to change pants all day long. Hand me downs often mean fresh meat. They wore me out trying on baskets of new hand me downs. It was their favorite thing in the world to do. 

Don’t ever let anyone tell you boys don’t like to play dress up. Hand me downs were always welcome in our house. Thrift shops were and are still thrill shops.