At the Melbourne op-shop where I work, I look forward to at least one offbeat donation each shift; though not so much the false teeth.
The rock, cupped in a man’s hands, was offered like a blessing across the shabby counter. “Good vibes,” he said, nodded wisely and left. Sometimes the only appropriate response is a smile.
An elderly man proudly brandished a rusty potato masher and two faded plastic cups, like he was handing out trophies at school sports day. We thanked him and made a small joke: how will he get his mash done now?
His items went to the recycling bin, but his visit held value; he brought goodwill, a smile, an act of charity. Maybe the small errand and quick chat buoyed his day.
Every donation carries a story. Many speak of life transitions: growing kids, boomers downsizing, a parent’s death. Some are mysteries.
Why didn’t the 1960s newlyweds open their gifts, now entombed in dated wrapping? Even the cards, missives of hope for the future, are still in their envelopes.
How did a framed collection of embroidered postcards, sent from the trenches by a first world war soldier, come to be left, glass cracked, in the rain at the back of the shop?
“Never to leave the [redacted] family,” the soldier wrote on the back.
His online service record told us he made it home. Not wanting the story to end here, we passed on the collection to the Melbourne War Memorial.
Weeks later, we found a letter opener roughly fashioned from a bullet casing. Research tells us it was made in the trenches, or in a prisoner of war camp during the first world war. More than 100 years old, it must hold many stories.
An innocuous garbage bag revealed a clutch of high-end designer handbags. They still held keycards to international hotels, receipts from Harrods, a pink leather purse clinking with gold coins, lipsticks, the subtle waft of perfume and a handwritten note: “Call Paul re booking.”
It felt voyeuristic looking through them; as if the owner put them down for a minute, and would soon be back.
The quirky donations are bright spots, but mostly we face a sisyphean mountain of yellowed books, mismatched wine glasses, vases, novelty mugs, plastic containers (some still with dinner leftovers in them) and a tsunami of dirty, torn and useless clothing headed for landfill. The only story here is a desire to avoid tip fees; laziness or maybe “donation washing” – sending items to the op-shop to avoid consumer guilt.
Op-shops are a conduit, a middle place between the ending and the chance of a new beginning. A canvas for stories in motion. Some people are thrilled to part with unwanted stuff, others struggle to let go. One mum stroked the ear of a threadbare rabbit: “It was her favourite, but she’s not interested anymore.”
Retirees lug in expensive dinner sets, ornaments and silverware snubbed by adult kids. “We held such wonderful dinner parties”, “It was a wedding gift from my aunt”.
Small eulogies for the passage of time.
People sometimes come back for the one thing they regret giving away. It is often too late.
Our customers bring stories in too. An elderly woman wants a pretty cardigan for bed. If she dies alone in her sleep, she wants paramedics to find her nicely attired.
A young mother has lost everything escaping a violent partner. A homeless person needs bedding, warm clothes and advice on welfare services.
Locals bring fruit and vegetables from their gardens; a colourful couple give an impromptu boot-scooting demonstration and customers return to model fashions upcycled from our wool blankets and vintage clothes.
Our op-shop is not just about raising money (though this is a vital service). It also offers a cat’s cradle of connection that holds many. It holds me.
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