The article caught my eye. The two-page-plus spread was about thrift stores, one of my favorite topics. There was a time in the 1980s when I could tell you where every consignment shop, every second-hand store, every “thrift store” in Onondaga country was located. It was part of my job at Catholic Charities to know these things. While I knew the location of some when I started that job, it was information that I collected from churches of every denomination that swelled the list to more than 80, a veritable treasure trove.

“Second Hand Rose” could have been my theme song. From my earliest recollections, a good portion of my clothing and most of our furnishings came from second hand sources.

Remembering that I was born at the end of the depression, the sensibility for thrift was a strong motivator for everyone, not just my family. I do believe. however, if there were a contest, my family would be a contender for a leadership position in this field. My mother and grandmother would haunt the Good Will on Third Avenue, snagging hardly-worn and even brand-new items, some with tags still on them, some a bit shabbier but containing hidden treasures, ie., enough yardage to make something else or, even more enticing, items called “findings.” Findings is the generic terms for such things as trims, buttons and zippers, all of which can equal or exceed the cost of the fabric itself.

They brought home books, too. Beautiful books, books that the depression mentality would deem beyond possible, books that opened the world to us. Second hand books became my passion.

After all, reading a book can only change a book ever-so-slightly. The words are still there; the plot and its dénouement do not change because a pair of eyes scanned the pages. I bought tons of 25-cent-apiece books from the St. Vincent de Paul store when it was located on Gifford Street. I started a used book store for the Alzheimer’s Association in Skaneateles in the 1990s.

The latter has, sadly, gone away, but its presence remains in my memory is underpinned by the idea that second hand bookstores have a romantic mystique all their own. I am in love with the superb movie, “84 Charing Cross Road,” with Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins, as it celebrates the bittersweet beauty of old books and the people who love them.

When my husband and I were first married, we had little in the way of furniture until we discovered what we called “junk shops.”

There were two favorites, one on Onondaga Street and the other on Grant Boulevard, both in Syracuse. We furnished our first apartment with treasures that we discovered at these establishments.

Armed with a book entitled “From Gunk to Glow” by George Grotz, we began our journey into the world of refinished furniture. We cringed at anything painted, thinking that paint somehow cheapened the item. Shabby chic didn’t exist, or, if it did, we “unshabbied” it. Nothing was spared.

If it had a finish on it, we stripped it off and then used what was then considered the sina qua non of authentic finishes, a combo of linseed oil and turpentine. Tables, chairs, dressers and beds came under our spell and we filled the house with furniture that demonstrated the beauty of natural wood.

Looking back, I wonder what might have been. Truth be told, we probably removed the value from most of the items on which we worked, but those thoughts never entered our minds as we happily poisoned the environment with the caustic stripping materials, another something that never entered our minds, since all of our friends had succumbed to a similar frenzy.

Garage sales are, in my mind, temporary thrift stores, where the vigilant can uncover riches masquerading as rubbish. Lamps, blankets, baskets, even dishes in my home once belonged to someone else who put them up for sale in their driveways or on their porches.

Thank goodness style no longer dictates that things match. We are most definitely an eclectic household with two of this and three of that. I still love to go trolling for such things, but now my peregrinations are for my children, since you couldn’t shoehorn another item into our overcrowded home.

As the new year approaches, I am thinking that it may be time for me to recycle some … maybe more than some … of the stuff in our home. There is the Methodist church thrift store at the bottom of our street, the one in the basement of the Masonic Hall in Skaneateles, the new St. Vincent de Paul store on Onondaga Street in the city … or I could ratchet up my thrill mechanism and hold a yard sale in front of our house. Thinking more about this, I would then have cash to spend on more stuff in thrift stores and at garage sales, all justified as supporting a greener way of life through recycle and reuse.