Building an Inventory
Labor Day, 1983, the day we moved into our new home, my husband, unusually insecure about money and certain I would spend us into bankruptcy, insisted that I handle all our financial matters from that day forward. “I never want to see a single bill,” he said. I didn’t think that was a particularly wise decision on his part, but I complied.
***
The Company sold everything I wanted and more, but I needed a business license to buy from them. When I had it, I ordered their catalog—a 3-inch thick 3-ring binder with monthly updates. I couldn’t believe what I’d discovered. It showed all sorts of wonderful things from the 1900s through the 1950s: little rhinestone shoe buckles from the ’20s, rose montees (sew-on rhinestones) from the ’40s, beautiful rhinestone jewelry clasps and faux gems from the ’50s, vintage charms, chains, beads, and pendants. Everything seemed shockingly underpriced, and I wanted it all.
I started buying things by the hundreds, ostensibly because they were cheaper that way. Then, after a few orders with free shipping for purchases over $500, I started negotiating lower prices for even higher quantities.
It wasn’t long before Mary or George, two of the four owners of The Company, began taking my orders themselves (a few of my orders had been botched by an employee). Eventually, Mary conveyed an interesting part of the company’s history. Most, if not all, of their vintage stock had been acquired in the late 1960s and early 1970s by an older woman who had founded the company. Glitz was out, and earthy was in, but she made several buying trips to Europe in preparation for what she was certain would be an eventual resurgence of glitz. Unfortunately, she died before the long-awaited resurgence came about, and her store was acquired by the current owners, all long-term employees.
***
Prior to my discovery of The Company, I had been putting every spare dollar (that didn’t go into our home) into the stock market. We were getting a great return, but it didn’t mean anything to me. I was miserable in my job and wanted things I could see and touch, to feel it was worth the pain.
When I arrived home after a stressful day at work, I knew that a package of wonderful things would be waiting for me to unwrap, sort, clean, count, fondle, admire, and repackage into new little zip-lock baggies. All the while, I dreamed about playing Store for real when I retired. I, too, believed that a return to glitz was overdue and was planning to make a small fortune when it did. The Company and I were a match made in heaven. Truly, it would later seem.
Although I had been careful, for years, to do as I had agreed and not upset my husband with evidence of spending, the month I accidentally blew it couldn’t have been worse. The Visa bill that I left lying on the kitchen counter in the spring of 1997 was at its limit.
“Are you spending this much every month?” He demanded.
“No… not every month,” I answered, omitting the more relevant, I’ve only spent that much for seven of the last twelve months.
“I don’t want you to spend anything more until you prove to me that you can sell this stuff!” he said. Shock and fear were evident in his voice. He needn’t have worried.
Over the summer, I began selling my wares in local craft shows. I enjoyed it, but it was too little, too late. By August, years of reward-followed-by-punishment at work and a difficult marriage at home finally resulted in my complete emotional breakdown. I spent three weeks in intensive therapy in the mental hospital. One of the things I learned is that psychologists detest labels. Even so, as I was checking out, one of the doctors walked over and suggested I “look into PTSD.”
I did nothing for the next several months but continue therapy and play the piano all day, working only on Mozart’s Sonata K. 333. It was beyond my ability to play it well, but that particular piece seemed to be amazingly therapeutic, regardless of how badly I played it.
On August 31, 1998, at the determined recommendation of my psychiatrist, I retired.
***
Several years earlier, after quizzing me for only a few minutes, a doctor at Loyola Medical Hospital turned to his intern and announced: “She’s bipolar.” Of course, I thought he was wrong. It seemed to me that, suddenly, everyone and her brother—living or dead—who’d done anything slightly beyond the “norm” were being assessed bipolar and declared mentally ill! Besides, I was there for something completely different. I did not understand why he was asking questions about manic-depressive behavior at all! I believed then, and still do, that everything I have ever done has had rational logic behind it. It’s just that things hadn’t turned out quite like I’d hoped.
***
I began selling the 288,000 rose montees (2000 strands of 144 montees each), and the other hundreds of vintage items I had, as embellishments for quilters at sewing shows—after I bought several three-drawer plastic cabinets to organize my inventory, made sixteen display cases (from the forty-five picture frames I bought on sale at Michaels),
and also bought three folding display tables, a real cash register…
and a new 1999 Ford E150 to transport everything to and from the shows. Why not? We could afford it.
I got a super deal on the Ford because the dealer was certain (from my always-deliberately-downplayed appearance when shopping), that he would make a hefty profit on future interest payments. He was visibly angry when he presented me with paperwork for a loan, and I responded with a check (which he verified would clear the bank) for payment in full.
My “stuff” was selling, though not exactly at what one would call a profit, all things (including travel expenses and the $550/per show fees) considered. I usually walked away with a few hundred dollars—which I immediately spent on new inventory.
***
At one point, Mary had called and said, “I’m going on a buying trip to Europe in a couple of weeks. What would you like?”
Why would she call to ask that? I wondered. Surely, I’m not so important that she would need to consult me before leaving! “Anything truly unique and that there’s little enough of it left that I can afford to buy it all,” I answered, a little confused, but delighted to oblige.
About a month later, she stopped at our home, in Illinois, on her way back to Colorado! “I wanted to give you first pick of what I found,” she said. She was sitting on our sofa, the trunk of goodies she’d bought at her feet. Then she began to explain…
“When you first started buying from us, we were in very serious financial trouble. There were months when we literally prayed for an order from you. You saved our company from bankruptcy. I just wanted to do something to show our appreciation.”
The expression on my husband’s face was… well… as one might expect.
I had proven that I could sell what I had, but after every show, I’d discover that things had been stolen. I tried to keep the words I’d once read foremost in my mind: “It is better to be stolen from than to have to steal” but it didn’t help much.
Worse yet, I would be incapacitated for several weeks from the stress of preparing for the shows, minding a booth by myself for three days, and constant contact with the public. I had to give up the shows, and my incredible inventory sat in boxes in the attic for fifteen years.
[To be continued in the fifth and final episode…]