I have a confession: I have the heart of a suburban raccoon and the soul of a 1970s interior designer. There is no greater rush than the “clack-clack-clack” of hangers in a crowded rack or the discovery of a mid-century lamp buried under a pile of vintage linens.
Michigan’s thrift trail is my personal playground, stretching from the gritty, creative corridors of the city to those sleepy lake towns where the shops wake up slow and the treasures are ripe for the picking.
I’ve spent countless Saturdays following a trail of “estate sale” signs and ducking into blue-and-yellow big boxes where the aisles are a color-coded rainbow of potential…