The Crimson Bomber

“A great idea can be like a vintage red bomber jacket. —M. M. Kiehn”

I love to thrift. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” my dad used to say. Sometimes it drove my mom nuts the stuff my dad dragged home. I still have an old cedar chest that literally fell off a junk truck he was following. He brought it home like Charlie Brown’s tree, insisting all it needed was a little love. And love it he did, restoring it to useful beauty. It has been with me in every home I have had since high school. 

To this day my brother, who has inherited this knack, will conclude, “I just couldn’t see it going into a landfill.” I don’t think the tendency to rescue purposeful utility from wasteful disregard was ever motivated by social consciousness for either my brother or my dad, although repurposing and reclaiming has become “a thing” these days. Instead they simply saw potential in that which, to others, looked like junk. My sister, by the way, is in the same camp. She actually can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. I’ve never personally known her to tackle that project, but I wouldn’t put it past her.

Now, I am not the handy one in the family. For me this gift shows up in my love of thrifting. Although I shop second-hand stores in general, I am a reward card carrying aficionado of Goodwill. I have many stories about the great finds discovered on safari-hunting a deal, or excavating a dig through a last-chance bin. My favorite thrifting tale is the story of my red vintage bomber-jacket.

I had dashed into my local Goodwill—as I often will before hosting a soiree—just before Thanksgiving a few years ago. I was looking for old serving platters that might coordinate well with my grandmother’s china because I was making ducks and turkey since the attendance was to be twice my normal gathering. Both my girls would be home, and I wanted to go all out but not break the bank. On my way to the section with dishes and platters, I passed a rack that held womens’ jackets. Red being my favorite color, it will always catch my eye. Peeking provocatively from between two rather pedestrian blazers was a red leather sleeve. It stopped fashionista-me dead in my tracks. Practical-me said, “get moving, you don’t need any clothes, and you have a lot to do.”

I never listen to her. 

I tried on the jacket. It fit perfectly. This gem of ruby perfection bore no brand label, save a tag advising it had been made in England. It was vintage: 80s, with ruched sleeves, a stand-up collar, and a bomber-jacket cut. It was in flawless condition and clearly real leather. The best part: It was only $9.99.

I made quick work of looking for a platter, a search that came up a bust. Feeling not quite guilty enough at failing in my mission, I strode undaunted to the check out with my treasure. And the best was yet to come. That particular color of price tag was half-off that day. And of course, November being the month of my birth, I had a five-dollar e-coupon to use. Now, how could I feel guilty about not finding that serving piece I needed when I got this smokin’ great jacket for free?

When I need the next idea, I have learned not to fret. If I keep my five senses open to what is around me, a great one presents itself, often as serendipitously as my beautiful crimson bomber (that’s kind of its nickname…yeah, I know). If I am practical, sticking to what I should do, following all those little rules in my head, I risk missing those moments of blissfully idle observation that yield surprisingly perfect notions. Maybe not the one I was looking for, but one I would not want to have missed for anything. 

Once, I took time I didn’t really have to spend sorting and putting away a cache of pictures from my long-dead grandfather’s life in Minnesota before he met my grandmother. Amongst the mysteries of that collection was the portrait of a young woman. I could not get her out of my head. Was this his first love that he had lost, along with their young child, during the influenza epidemic of 1918? Looking at her for one last, long moment before shutting the box, I knew there was a great story waiting to be told. I tucked the fragments forming in my head into a journal for safekeeping.

It is random sensory impressions that capture a writer’s attention, opening the door to the stories within stories, revealing a new character, a fresh plot, an unexpected setting. In those moments I grab that idea and make it mine, rather than risk losing it. Like the crimson bomber, I can figure out what “goes with it” later…