My mom loved rummage sales. The Provo Unitarian church had them regularly, and she was usually there. I loved going with her and looking with amazement at the tables covered with things that people were willing to discard: dolls, clothing, and toys (including a tiny washing machine that could be hooked up to the sink and could really wash doll clothing).
Mom was an early recycler, and having grown up poor, was more than willing to wear gently used clothing—and buy it for her kids. I had some great outfits that she found at the Unitarian church.
But when I was about 10 years old, I had a sudden and horrible thought. I can remember being in Primary (which then was after school on Wednesdays). We could bring pennies in and put them into a wooden replica of the Primary Children’s Hospital. I was walking up to put my pennies in, when a couple of girls behind me giggled at something, and I became convinced it was at me (early signs of my paranoia?). I was further convinced it was because of what I was wearing, and even more convinced that what I was wearing must have at some point belonged to one of them—so they KNEW I was wearing donated clothing.
It was horrible! I was ashamed, even though five minutes earlier I had loved my dress. I ran home after Primary was over, took it off, and never wore it again.
It was years before I would wear used clothing, but in all ways am becoming more and more my mother—and can’t wait for yard sale season to begin.