Saint Joseph is a small river town, home of the Pony Express and Jesse James, a gateway to the South. A pit stop to the sunset. The middle of everything and nothing. A place for the weary to rest, get a little too comfy, and never leave. A town where folks got nothin but time.
As a teen living here my favorite thing to spend money on were artifacts from another time. Wearing worn 70's skirts, shoving my chap stick and cell phone in some recently deceased lady's handbag, curling up at night with the patchwork quilt of a teenager long grown. Wondering whose hands had touched the fabric that lay against my skin. What did the facial features of the woman who owned this dress look like when she smelled something rotten? Was this some little boys favorite T-shirt, his mother begging him to let her wash it?
As an adult the thrill of second hand shopping hasn't left me. Only now it has become a trendy internet endeavor. So, here I am, sitting in front of the computer with nothing but time and a pile of vintage clothes.
