Tour of Utah: Deseret Industries

Today’s episode of “Sites to Visit in Utah” features a retail store most of the world is not familiar with: Deseret Industries.

The next question on your mind is So, what is Deseret Industries?

D.I. Closed

Currently closed, due to COVID-19.

Started in 1938, Deseret Industries (D.I.) is the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saint’s goodwill store.

But, why would we want to visit there?

D.I. may be a place to sort through and pay for donated ‘treasures,’ but it’s also much more!

For one thing, the LDS church uses D.I. as a job training resource. Those needing skills work in receiving moccasins someone’s been walking in, sorting some Pro Wings, pricing a fur fox skin, stocking the shelves with flannel zebra jammies, and even ringing up your purchase of your grandad’s clothes.

I …am a D.I. addict. I love going there. At least, I loved going there. Once The Scary Coronamonster drew closer, I eschewed my thrift shop stops. Before that point, however, I was a regular.

Mostly, I use D.I. to feed a gnawing bibliophile appetite. Sometimes, I find signed copies.

Besides books I’m interested in, I also uncover valuable literary treasures.

1800 Books

This is one of many valuable antique books in the locked case that day.

…And, less-valuable, less-literary discoveries.

Pizza!

Yes, this is a plush pizza.

I shop for luggage, lunch bags, bicycles, fake ficus trees, antiques, Halloween costumes, VHS and DVD films, tools, furniture, toys, vases, decorations, banana split dishes, and random crap I didn’t even know I wanted.

It’s similar to what I’ve heard flea markets are like. I think.

D.I. is all over the place in Utah. I even have my favorite locations, depending on what I’m searching for. It’s not just me, either; my former sixth-grade teacher used to show up at our lunch dates (when I was older, naturally) with her latest book finds from her favorite D.I.

It sounds crazy; but if you’re in the area, you should hit one up!


For no cost to you, here’s what I donated to the internet last week:
Wednesday, May 13: A virtual tour of Capitol Reef National Park.

Thursday, May 14: “Dear Teacher,” after reminiscing on my school/home experiences.

Friday, May 15: Announced that Charles won the Weekly Hilarity Contest.

Saturday, May 16: Announced this week’s Hilarity Contest. Write a response to the quote from good ol’ Kephart.

And, another update on the Coronavirus Home Life.

Sunday, May 17: “What’s in a Name?” for Carrot Ranch’s prompt.

Monday, May 18: Shared a quote by Norman Cousins.

Tuesday, May 19: “Going Postal, X.”

Wednesday, May 20: Today

I also posted on my motherhood site. I wrote “Sleep, the Unattainable Dream.”

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens, including pictures (excluding the front image of Deseret Industries and YouTube’s video).

Adventures, Right Here

Quick! Open the door to hide from siblings’ seeking. You’ll need a fur coat -there, at your elbow.

Now; watch a filthy-fingered store owner glare at young boys, as she discovers a well-placed rat retribution.

Laugh the painful glee of snappy satire; chortle in appreciation of the cynic.

Sing along to “Come, Thou Font,” or “Camptown Races.”

Hold your breath for 20,000 leagues. You’ll need a harpoon; no, don’t ask why.

¿Que pasa, amigo? ¿Te gustaría aprender español?

Come, my fellow bibliophile, to the library. Only here may you travel so broadly, and taste-test such varied fare.

 

Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Entry

Literary Prescription

“I need a new book to read,” a friend asks. “Do you have any to recommend?”

I have to steady myself against a wall; tell my thudding heart to slow. Almost euphoric, I compose myself. It simply wouldn’t do for a bibliophile of my standing to be caught drooling.

I straighten my posture and eyeglasses, immediately donning my physician’s overcoat. My pipe rests gently against my lip, held in my right hand. The left, of course, finds a casual perch halfway in a front pocket.

“What have you read lately?” I query.

The friend’s response is crucial. “Oh, I just finished up This Popular Novel,” she may say, telling me of an interest in mainstream, feel-good stories. Or maybe she admits to perusing dystopia, sampling science fiction, catching a guilty whiff of fantasy, or snitching a teen romance before dinner.

Without prompt, the information is almost always followed by, “I liked these details or this character, but am looking more for less violence or more of that world.”

I liked, but… is the imperative response to furthering my prognosis.

“Ah, yes,” I muse, pondering; filling the conversational space as my eyes wander a few titles. “Would you like another of that same genre?”

Yes or no will sort my mind to a flow-chart diagram of question, response, action. Yes leads to more of that section; then Same author?, Want another female lead?, or What about this one?

No, of course, follows an arrow to What other type would you like, then?

I’ve been out of practice for a tad longer than I’ve wished, life circumstances being what they are. I try not to allow this lapse to show, however. Professionalism is paramount; poise essential.

I clear my throat, nestling the unlit pipe in the right pocket. Striding excitedly to a shelf, I begin extracting pharmaceutical samples.

My patient listens, keenly, fully prepared to ignore my advice once within access of internet searches. For now, she watches my sorting hands move through the pile of books. She is judging appearances as I detail contents.

My calm demeanor is more difficult to maintain. I had thought my raised pressure, sweating palms, and nervous movements to be results of an overexcited reaction to a question. Instead, I realize I’ve dipped into the medicine cabinet a few times more than was healthy. I’ve become attached.

“I think you’d really like reading this one,” I say, feeling the shaky stress of a salesman’s position as I proffer a favorite.

A shrug; a, “Meh.”

I hock a few more titles. Strangely, I begin to view the rectangle-bound writings as closer friends than the human patient before me. In judging and dismissing these fragments of my soul, she has become an unwanted interloper at our private family party.

If she snubs another book, I may have to show her the door.

“I think I’ll go with your first one, here,” she finally says, drawing out the prettiest cover.

“Excellent,” I say, nodding. I gather my smock more snugly round the buttons; find the pipe with my right, and the pocket with my left. I attempt a businesslike smile.

“Thank you, Chelsea,” she smiles, holding a hand out to hug.

“Of course,” I respond, embracing. “Let me know how you like it.”

My friend departs, smiling. I close the shop door; its bell tinkles. Alone with my books, I collapse into a handy overstuffed armchair.

I pull an illicit title from a nearby shelf, immediately recalling its pleasurable side effects. I’d love to share it with another.

As I pass through the first chapter, I eagerly anticipate my next patient.