My daughter-in-law, Dawn Edwards, is a self-proclaimed thrift shop junkie and Good Will hunter.  She is assembling a book about her experiences and is a talented writer. This chapter she sent me was so touching that I thought I would share it with you.  Wonderful  thoughts as we prepare for Thanksgiving Day and live our own memories now.  It might even inspire us to start an album which would be valued by our great-grandchildren!
    Some of the more poignant things found on the shelves of my thrift store haunts have included those of framed old photographs of people probably long gone from this world.   Their original importance to life seemed virtually meaningless by their being disposed of in such a careless manner.  It pulled at my heartstrings every time I encountered such an item.  I’d often wonder why a family would donate such a memento, casting aside not only the frame, plaque, or trophy itself, but more intriguing, tossing out a snapshot in time.
    I’ve held gilt trophies, some more impressive than others in size or style, all engraved with different inscriptions, commemorating a sporting event victory and even a christening or a wedding.  Trays congratulating the owner on a job well done, for loyalty, ingenuity, steadfastness, persistence, or brilliance, clearly once placed in honor at someone’s home, now sat undignified under bent aluminum baking sheets.
    Many a person with whom I shopped at whatever secondhand store at the time would stop, rifle out the trophy, scan its inscription, and then toss it aside like a chipped coffee mug or an unraveled tie.   There it would sit again, silently declaring its previous owner’s recognition, waiting to once again to adorn a shelf.   What chain of events would lead an heir or family to lose faith in its representation of achievement or event? Why were these items on the same table with a nonworking flashlight or outdated eight-track tape? I’d hold a trophy from time to time, running my finger along the indented words, feeling the weight of the marble base in my hands, admiring the colored accents that still reflected light, speculating on its original intent and lamenting its ultimate fate.
    On more than one occasion, I would purchase one of these sad proclamations of performance, bring it home and restore it as best I could, placing it again in a place of honor atop my bookshelf.  It was almost an apology to the unknown owner. I found other uses for my trophies.  One such gem included a golden cheerleader aloft an impressive tower of chrome and red.  This served as a paperweight atop my desk; spiked gilt pompons glittering in the glow of my fluorescent lamp.  Even Sushi, my cat, enjoyed my displaced decoration, rubbing her face against the cheerleader’s outstretched hands, appreciating the trophy in her feline way, regardless of whether the previous owner, one member of “MMHS Cheer ‘78 Second Place” even recalled this achievement.  At least in my home the trophy regained glory.
    More poignant were the prevalence of photo frames, often still containing portraits of long ago, the carefully posed subjects beaming out from behind the sometimes-cracked glass.  Frozen in time, I found decades old snapshots, faded from the sun, once cherished and now remanded to the grubby shelves of a thrift shop. 
    Here on her wedding day stood a young lady, swathed in white lace, shyly smiling from beneath her veil, a bouquet of lilies grasped in one hand and the lengthy train in the other.  Somebody’s mother, aunt, grandmother, daughter, sister, or niece had stood for a portrait on clearly the most important day of her life, setting forth into a new adventure into matrimony.  I wondered what her life had been like.
     Another photo showed a mother and son, her eyes so proud and full of love.  His small hands holding hers, he gazed up with adoration.  Their old-fashioned clothes, hinting at a simpler time, served to enhance the sweet setting. Her high-necked lace blouse and hand-carved cameo still a focal point, and his little starched white shirt and woolen knickers were charming in their elegance.  Clearly they were a proud family, dressed in their Sunday best, probably saving up for months to afford such an intimate and professional portrait.  Where was that son now?  How would he feel about my having that picture?
    Here, grinning out from beneath a dusty glass front, a football team stood proudly, their helmets tucked neatly to the side, padded shoulder to padded shoulder, each young man’s face full of promise and confidence.  Their coach, a gruff-looking gentleman to the left, in his pinstriped suit and fedora, managed a slight smirk for the camera.  The team mascot, a scruffy white and black terrier, its eyes still bright, seemed almost about to bound from the confines of the black frame.
    Here, a fisherman, holding his prize catch aloft, his exuberance still infectious even from his black-and-white image.  His waders still glistening from mysterious unnamed waters were donned carefully over his checkered shirt.  In the background was a pristine lake setting, and an inscription in the corner read, “Got the big one, Bill, April ’49.” 
    Each frame I have encountered, photo remaining, has moved me.  I am staggered at the blatant disregard shown these heretofore-special snapshots.  Why donate the frame without removing the photos?  Had a family member recently passed on and their possessions simply been blindly dumped in a donation box?  Had a divorce ensued, in the case of the blushing bride?  Had an untimely death proven even more painful with the continued possession of the portrait of the mother and son?  Had the football team members passed around the photograph, each one in turn hanging the frame on the wall, until one by one the team members either lost interest or died out, the final owner or family member deciding to end the tradition? 
    And what of fisherman Bill?  Had he abandoned his hobby, preferring a quieter life?  Or had some medical illness befallen him and the photographic reminder of a more vigorous past been too much to bear?The questions remained unanswered.  The stories behind each snapshot were a mystery of lives now silent. 
    The lesson to me was how fleeting life is and how important to treasure the important moments and memories of my own family and the photographs.  
    Copyright 2007 Dawn Edwards