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This year was filled with so many blessings and great things, but one of the things that I am most grateful for is becoming a part of Iglesia Ni Cristo. Many many thanks to my sponsor, @jasminehipolito, for always being there for me when things get tough and for just being an overall awesome person! You always keep me in check (aka calling me out lolz) and motivate me when I'm down in the dumps. Thank you so much and I hope that you will have many more blessings to come! #jramela #vangieboy #INC #YETS #shedrinksbobatobecomemorehipster #oghipster #gobears

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2007

#Lightspeed Champion #blood orange #black #oghipster

Grandpa Morris - The OG Hipster

My Grandpa Morris was an OG hipster. He wore a variation of the same outfit, every day: worn Levi's overalls with at least one pen in the front pocket and a paper-thin, short sleeved plaid shirt. He never wore cologne, there was just a pheromone-man-musk that followed him everywhere. He was an auction man, buying low - antique furniture, tiffany glass and bulk, unclaimed freight - and reselling it high. He lived 'off the grid,' in this sort of underground vocation that often required him to be up with sun, hitting farm auctions to get ahead of his competition. He once accepted horses as a form of payment, saying that Grandma would have spent the money too fast if he did the trade in cash.

There's something exhilarating about the thrill of the hunt...it's an addiction. All senses engaged, nothing else matters...your pupils dilate in order to avoid overlooking a treasure or trinket in a dingy, low-lit antique outpost. You see an old 3 4 four-post bed imported from France and your pulse quickens, then, a pile of jadeite, an old fur stole buried in a pile of junk, a copper tea kettle with porcelain handle, a beaded, white clutch with a tiny hand-held gilded mirror inside. And, it's on! Your imagination is running wild with all of the parties that purse had seen, the DIY projects you could do with an old 1920's car headlamp.

I remember my buyer's remorse at 15 years old when my dad forced me to have my own auction number and I was too awkward and shy to throw up it, getting outbid for a lot of vintage clutch purses I still lust after. That was when my Grandparents opened up a huge auction, selling off much of their Victorian home's contents, downsizing to something more manageable. It's too bad I wasn't a bit older then, I would have asked my grandfather more questions about how he knew what to buy and when, and I definitely would have purchased a lot more! I didn't realize it then, but what little time I had with him and Grandma Maxine had a huge impact on me.

Over this past weekend, I visited my cousin and her family in Connecticut. It reminded me of just how much my childhood in rural Missouri and paling around with Grandpa Morris had an shaped my likes/dislikes, my belief structure and gave me an eye for quality materials and construction. Luckily, my cousin is just as sick as I am, so she understood my paranoid frenzy, as I was trying to find the shopkeeper to indicate my (outwardly nonchalant) interest in several pieces. God forbid anyone buy my French bed, vintage bike basket, aluminum chaise lounger, under-the-bed box or ancient XL colander out from under me!!

There's nothing more gratifying than knowing you are buying the diamond-in-the-rough, the thing that the shopkeeper doesn't know or care that he has. The thrifting, pickin' bug is in our family's blood for some reason, but only on the Morris side. My mom basically hates old things and is way too grossed out by anything dirty to be caught dead rummaging through an estate sale or antique store - but I LOVE it - my brother takes after my mom, so the only old things he likes are classic cars (another addition in my immediate family). My uncle's barn is overflowing with antique Coca-Cola machines (still functional!) and furniture. One of his daughters (my cousin) has her own online, vintage clothing store. My dad is slowly filling up his basement with weathered automotive signs, oldy timey gas pumps, rusty bicycles and barber chairs. My other uncle has made a living out of living in the past by making and selling homemade root beer at Civil War reenactments. There may or may not be some photographic evidence lurking around of my 8 year old self in a bonnet and hoop skirt at one such event. My Connecticut cousin, who has a chair addiction, has been buying and refinishing furniture before selling it to new homes.

It all goes back to Grandpa Morris, the OG hipster, living off the grid, making his own way. It's his fault we all love sifting through random piles of junk at seedy roadside stores more than going to a store to buy something shiny and new. It's his fault none of us really know how to work a 'normal job.' It's his fault I want to buy every flip-top Atlas jar I see and store my dry foods in them, which I'm told is a 'hipster' behavior, (whatever that means). It's Grandpa's fault we're all so obsessed with the adrenaline-fueled deal and sale, something that's turned into his legacy and our family tradition.