Every Value Village has the same smell. If you know it, you know it. If you don’t, it can be best described as dust, cigarette smoke, peculiar perfumes and other mysterious odours all mixed together. I also happen to know what it smells like if you take that smell and set it on fire.
Growing up in East Vancouver, the Value Village I frequented most often was the massive three-storey location on Hastings. Aside from the smell, I was also deeply familiar with all of its hidden corners and isolated rooms. After all, it was a building I had been going to essentially since the moment I was born.
My grandma, who lived only a handful of blocks away, was quite literally a Value Village addict. She rarely went more than three days without visiting, and almost always left with something in hand. It’s been at least 10 years since I’ve stepped foot inside of her apartment because of how cluttered it’s gotten.
My mom inherited the same thrifting gene. Our one-floor apartment is already nearly bursting at its seams from the endless amount of boxes and packaging supplies necessary to fulfill the needs of her business. Somehow, she’s also managed to squeeze in a carefully-curated collection of all sorts of antiques acquired after years and years of thrifting and going to antique stores: ceramic pie birds and creepy doll heads and vintage portrait paintings.
And then there’s me. Throughout my childhood, there was one day of the week I’d always look forward to: Tuesdays. It was the day that seniors would get a 30 per cent off discount. My mom and I would often take my grandma with us to Value Village, where we’d then embark on our own individual treasure hunts for whatever we were searching for.
The subjects of my search evolved over time. In my youngest years, I would stand in front of the wall filled with small plastic bags stuffed to the brim with miscellaneous toys. I’d stand on my tippy toes and methodically investigate each bag until I found a toy that made my tiny heart soar with excitement.
I then reached the age where I started to actually care about the clothes I’d wear. While my peers were shopping at stores like Justice and The Children’s Place, I made my way to the children’s clothing aisles of Value Village. As I searched for the perfect graphic tee, I tried to ignore the fact that no one I knew had ever said that their clothes came from a thrift store.
I slowly began to transition to shopping in the women’s section. Around this same time, thrifting started to become popular on social media. I began to notice more and more teenagers and young adults cautiously entering the aisles. I could see their tentativeness, the way they had to force themselves to reach out and touch the clothes with their bare hands.
While I continued to go to thrift stores, I found myself going to the Hastings Value Village less and less. It no longer felt like I belonged there in the same way I once had.
In late June 2022, in the first few days of summer vacation where everything feels the slightest bit hazy, the smell of smoke came drifting through my open window.
Upon entering the living room to see if the rest of my family had noticed the smell as well, my brother swung open his bedroom door. “It’s the Value Village!” he exclaimed. “The Value Village is on fire!”
It was barely a question as to whether or not we were going to go check it out. We drove over and parked a few blocks away. The street was filled with others who, just like us, couldn’t help themselves from observing the destruction of a building that had cemented itself as a landmark in our community, no matter whether you shopped there or not.
Smoke curled up into the night sky and pricked at my eyes. Blue and red lights flashed from the police cars blocking off the observers from getting too close. The smell of burning wood struck my nostrils, almost as sweet as the scent of a campfire.
But why did it smell like that?
As I stood there on the sidewalk, the thought kept running in my head on repeat. How could a building full of the smell that had enveloped so much of my life smell like that when lit on fire? There was nothing to indicate what I knew was burning: all of the racks and shelves and hooks that had once housed all of my most treasured thrift finds.
The building burnt down to the ground, leaving nothing but a flat smear of ash. Whenever I drive by, I’m overwhelmed by how vividly I can still picture the building that once stood there.
While I know that I will never be able to physically return to the Hastings Value Village, that hasn’t stopped my mom, my grandma and I from continuing to go thrifting. And it’s in those moments that I’m reminded that it’s not the physical building that matters, or even the treasures we find. What matters is that thrifting is an activity that we can always turn to in order to connect us.
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