When I was a child, I hated all things old and second-hand.  I had four older siblings, three of which were sisters, and so more than three-quarters of my wardrobe and toy collection were comprised of hand-me-downs.  (The other quarter were brand new straight from my mother’s sewing machine, which I found almost equally as mortifying.)  My parents were what I considered junk collectors.  Almost no trip, even to the supermarket, ever ended without a stop at a yard sale, estate sale, flea market, or antique store.  I just couldn’t understand why my parents enjoyed acquiring old, dirty, used stuff.  And beyond that, they seemed to simply enjoy browsing and seeing the stuff; they got a kick out of it even when they got back in the car empty handed! They were nuts!

When I turned 16, I refused to continue going on any more road trips with them.  Long weekends spent visiting my eldest sister in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania were three or four day long antique-fests.  I had had enough!  By this time I had learned to appreciate the wonders of sewing machines and their creations, gaining a little bit of a reputation as a budding fashion designer in my circle of friends, but still was of the mentality that old equals gross.  My mom would come home and show me china plates with birds painted on them.  My dad would display rusty tools with wooden handles.  I just shook my head.

I honestly can’t remember when my parents’ appreciation of the old and battered began to rub off on me.  I remember that I was slightly obsessed with the idea of identity-building, and that I slowly began to appreciate that aged items each possessed their own history and character.  I remember my mother coming home from an estate sale one day with an amazingly tailored navy wool coat lined in winter white with a matching shawl scarf.  She had found it at an estate sale; it still had the original tags.  The coat fit me so perfectly and was so beautiful - so much more beautiful than any other coat I had ever owned.  ”Why don’t they make coats like this anymore?” I almost yelled with excitement.  ”They just don’t make anything like they used to…” my mother responded in a tone that was an odd combination of disgust and world-weariness.

By the time I graduated from college I was enthusiastically accompanying my mother on Saturday mornings on her scavenger hunts.  My affinity for fashion and my seamstress skills heightened my appreciation for the superb handicraft of vintage clothing, so while my mother would check china spread on folding tables for chips at yard sales, I’d be digging through bins of stained and ripped clothing looking for the perfect, unmarred, couture survivor.  I’ve made some marvelous finds, among them a black suede evening bag with original Macy’s tags on it.  The tags read: $5.  Unbelievable.

Almost a year ago I launched my online shop for vintage clothing and novelties.  I knew that if my parents and I enjoyed saving the aged from uncertain futures by cherishing them and giving them good homes, others must have that same desire to preserve history in such a manner!  Founding LonesomeBrown has been one of the best decisions I have made in my life.  I’m so excited to reach my shop’s one-year anniversary in seven weeks, and am looking forward to growing in my second year of business.  Please visit my shop here.

Wishing on a star,

LonesomeBrown