I’ve never considered myself to be particularly well-read but when I look back at my life, I now realize that I’ve always read books for pleasure.  I remember sobbing at the end of On the Beach by Nevil Shute, during what felt like imminent nuclear war in 1980s America.  Why my dad recommended that book despite my anxieties, I’ll never know!  I loved To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and The Count of Monte Cristo (abridged version) by Alexandre Dumas, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, all of Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery, Agatha Christie books, and so many others.  I read books because I wanted to live inside the stories.  I read books because my parents read books, and our shelves were full.  I remember titles of books I was supposed to read in school but didn’t (Cliff’s Notes!) but mostly, I remember books I wanted to read.  Those are the ones that have stuck with me.

When I was 13 yrs old, there was a new girl at school.  She wore Guess jeans in an array of colors, zipped at the ankle, and vintage tops.  She also had an older sister who was going to punk shows around town.  Mary’s taste filtered down to us junior high schoolers, even though I never even met Mary.  Before I knew it, X was my favorite band, and I was trying to emulate the style of the singer, Exene Cervenka, which meant vintage dresses and costume jewelry.

My aunt Charla, just 9 years older than me, took the new girl and me shopping at a vintage store on Laurel Canyon Blvd in North Hollywood. I still remember what I bought:  a 1950s black cardigan with a flower, appliqué detail at the neck, for what seemed exorbitant at the time but was probably $20 or $30.  I should have kept that sweater because it was the gateway to what has been a lifelong obsession.