I never knew her name.
But I knew she had style.
I love estate sales. The process is different from thrifting. They’re usually organized, and you have the ability to move through each room of a home. Oftentimes, estate sales are associated with affluent areas, and if you’re lucky, you’re likely to find a fashion treasure.
But I’ve learned never to judge a book by its cover when it comes to estate sales.
Just show up with good intentions and cash on hand.
On this particular day, I was in the 19th Ward in Rochester, New York. At one time, it was known for having some of the most beautiful homes in the city. It still has that traditional family vibe that I love, and on this fall afternoon, I approached a beautiful home on Inglewood Street.
As I pulled up, I noticed the house was stately, well maintained, and beautiful. There were only a few cars parked along the tree-lined street. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and the birds were enjoying nature.
It was a beautiful day.
For me, these were all good signs.
I walked to the side door and was greeted by a man in his 40s. He was pleasant and welcomed me with a simple, “You can look around.”
Upon entering, the house felt cold.
Not cold in the sense of being emotionless. You could just tell that no one lived there anymore.
The home was clean, which I appreciated. I walked upstairs, greeted a woman standing near the bathroom, and entered a room that was mostly empty.
I started looking around for the treasure.
Nothing.
At this point, I was beginning to wonder if I had made a mistake. I’m usually pretty good about these things, but there are always outliers.
The man eventually came upstairs. He and the woman stood together, and then he happily asked:
“Did you check the attic?”
I hadn’t.
I turned the knob and started up the stairs.
And then I saw it.
A long clothing rack stretched nearly the entire width of the attic.
It was incredible.
The attic was a vault of clothes—fur coats, vintage jackets, dresses, shoes, accessories, and everything in between.
It took everything in me not to scream.
Actually, my excitement took over.
“Oh my God.”
The couple laughed.
Then he explained that the clothes had belonged to his aunt. She had been a producer and traveled often. He went on to explain that he and his wife were from California and were only in Rochester for a few days. He had inherited everything, the house was going on the market, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with all of her things.
Then came the words every fashion lover dreams of hearing:
“Take what you want.”
I was stunned.
The wardrobe was meticulously cared for, loved, and organized.
I felt honored just being able to see it.
The clothing racks, shoes, furs, dresses, hats, and accessories told me something about a woman I had never met:
She had style.
And an impeccable level of taste.
The collection was so good that I needed backup.
I started calling people.
Nobody answered except my cousin Nkem—who, conveniently, is a fashionista too. It just so happened that she and her husband were already on the west side of town.
Perfect.
She pulled up, and I couldn’t wait to show her what I had discovered.
Nkem left with a real rabbit-fur coat.
I chose a red suede blazer, accessories, and two coats—one fur and another wool coat with a rabbit-fur collar.
To me, the pieces were priceless.
I knew they were quality items, but more importantly, I knew they were in good hands. They were going to true fashion dons who would appreciate them and pay homage to the style icons who came before us.
When I walked out of that house, I was on a high.
My body was practically shaking.
I felt appreciative, exuberant, and grateful.
I went home and told Marquis all about it. Like the loving, supportive husband he is, he was excited for me—happy that I had found something that brought me so much joy through fashion.
But the story wasn’t over.
The next day, I was driving when the Inglewood Street house came back to mind.
So I took a detour.
When I arrived, the same friendly couple was outside. The sun was shining again. The birds were singing.
I asked if there was anything left.
They waved me over.
By this point, the house was almost completely empty except for a beautiful chestnut wood-and-glass Art Deco-style side table.
It was a gem.
I gave him twenty dollars and gladly took it home.
That table now lives in my attic and holds some of my favorite accessories.
But something else happened as I walked out of the house for the final time.
I felt calm.
It was peaceful.
Even though the house was empty, the garden was still growing. Rocks were covered in moss. There was life around me and laughter somewhere in the distance.
The woman was gone.
Her house was empty.
Her belongings were being carried into new homes.
And yet, there were traces of a life everywhere.
I left wondering about a woman I had never met.
What inspired her style?
What was her favorite outfit?
Where did she wear those furs?
How did they make her feel?
What did she see during all those travels?
And what was her story?
I’ll never truly have those answers.
But I still have the coats.
I still have the side table.
Nkem has the rabbit-fur coat.
And now, our style stories continue with pieces that once belonged to hers.
Maybe that’s one of the beautiful things about personal style. Sometimes the person leaves us, but pieces of their choices, taste, and story continue moving through the world.
I never knew her name.
But I knew she had style.
And I haven’t forgotten her.
To the unforgotten queen of Inglewood Street: may you strut in heavenly peace.
Your things are in good hands.
— Tonia B.
#BeUnforgettable
