Circle H Thrift Store / Resales LLC.

06/10/2026

So today we're going to talk about making money.

I know... exciting stuff.

Some of you were probably hoping for another story about Fred getting on my nerves, Misty reorganizing something that didn't need reorganizing, or me complaining about modern society because apparently that's what middle-aged men with a bad back, tattoos and a beard are required to do.

Don't worry. I'll complain about something before this is over.

Now if you own a business, the math seems pretty simple. Buy low, sell high, pay the bills, and if there is anything left over, try not to spend it all in one place.

That's how it's supposed to work.

But I think one of the biggest mistakes young business owners make is believing every transaction can be measured by a spreadsheet.

It can't.

And if you're planning to hang your shingle in a small town, you'd better learn that lesson early.

See, in a big city you might be Customer #4821.

In a small town, you're the little girl who likes grape soda.

You're the guy trying to rebuild his toolbox after buying his first house.

You're the widow who just needs somebody to carry a dresser to the truck.

You're family.

And if you want the community to support your business, you have to be willing to support the community.

Now before somebody says, "Well Joe, that's easy for you to say."

No... it isn't.

The power company does not accept hugs as payment.

The insurance company has never once called and said, "We noticed you were really nice to people this month, so your bill is free."

Trust me, I checked.

Yesterday a lady came in who has become a regular. I noticed she was buying house stuff, decorations, pots, and then she wandered over into the tool section looking like I look when somebody asks me to update a computer.

So I asked what she was working on.

Turns out she has a new home, is building up a toolbox, and is putting together a chicken coop.

Well, Joe being Joe, I handed her a pack of screwdrivers, some Vise-Grips, and a few other things that every toolbox ought to have.

Now according to the spreadsheet, that was a loss.

According to an accountant somewhere, I probably committed a minor act of stupidity.

According to me, I helped somebody who was trying to build something.

I can live with that.

Then there are the kids.

Yesterday one little girl asked her mom if she could stop by just to say hello to Mr. Joe.

Now maybe she thinks I'm a cool dude.

Maybe she was hoping I'd hand her a snack and a soda.

Maybe she has figured out that grumpy old men are actually suckers when it comes to kids.

I don't know.

I just know she went out of her way to stop in and say hello.

Then another young lady came in, hugged me, marched behind the counter like she owned the place, and sat down to tell me about her day.

Usually she's covered in dirt from playing outside.

Some people might see a messy kid.

I see a little girl who is kind, polite, and absolutely convinced she is my favorite customer.

She ain't wrong either.

Now here's the part some people won't understand.

Her family and I don't agree on everything.

Matter of fact, we're probably standing on opposite sides of the fence on a few things.

But that little girl doesn't know that.

She just knows Mr. Joe is probably going to fuss at her a little, hand her a drink, find her a snack, and maybe sneak a toy into her hand before she leaves.

And I think that's exactly how communities are supposed to work.

Then there was this past week at the Clarkton Clothing Exchange.

Several families lost everything in a fire.

Their homes, their belongings, the clothes on their backs... just gone.

Because of all of you and your donations, we were able to tell them to come in and get what they needed.

No paperwork.

No speeches.

No making people feel embarrassed.

Just, "Come on in, let's see what we can do."

Now if you want to be cold about it, that was inventory leaving the building.

If you want to be human about it, it was neighbors helping neighbors.

And I hope I never become the kind of businessman who can't tell the difference.

That's really the lesson I wish more people understood.

I see folks all the time talking about opening businesses.

They've got business plans, marketing strategies, logos, social media campaigns, and they know every trick in the book.

That's great.

But here's a free lesson from a mildly grumpy middle-aged thrift store owner.

If you want to hang your shingle in a community, you better be willing to become part of that community.

Go to the fundraisers.

Support the schools.

Help somebody who is just getting started.

Give a kid a soda.

Hand a new homeowner a pair of pliers.

Give clothes to a family that lost everything.

Listen to old folks tell stories you've heard twenty times.

Learn people's names.

And understand that sometimes the best thing you can do for your business has absolutely nothing to do with business.

The funny thing is, all those little losses seem to add up.

The little girl who comes in for a snack brings her parents.

The lady building a chicken coop comes back.

The family you helped tells somebody else.

People remember.

Not because your prices were the cheapest.

Not because your building was the fanciest.

They remember because you treated them like they mattered.

So yes, we make money.

We have to.

The lights don't stay on because I have a winning personality.

But after all these years, I've come to believe that if profit is the only thing you're counting, you're probably counting the wrong things.

Some of the best investments I've ever made walked right out the front door for free.

A pair of pliers.

A cold drink.

A bag of chips.

A toy.

A stack of clothes for somebody having the worst week of their life.

The spreadsheet says I lost money.

This old grumpy guy says I was making deposits into something a whole lot bigger than a bank account.

And if that isn't good business in a small town...

Well, maybe this old man doesn't know as much as he thought.

But I have a feeling thirty years from now nobody is going to remember what my profit margin was.

I hope they remember that if they walked through my doors and needed a little help, there was a pretty good chance they'd get it... even if I complained the whole time.

06/09/2026

A little of the current inventory.

06/09/2026

Hey guys and girls,

The store is absolutely packed to the brim with great stuff. We've got all the usual treasures you ladies like to hunt for, but fellas, this might be your week because we are overloaded with tools, jacks, air compressors, and all kinds of garage goodies. I think there may even be a few crossbows heading out.

And before the ladies come after me in the comments, yes... I know plenty of y'all like tools, compressors, and crossbows too. I've learned that lesson the hard way. So everybody is welcome to come dig through the inventory.

Now I need to put on my "old guy yelling at kids to get off the lawn" hat for a minute.

Most of you know we have a dumpster behind the store. I also know that from time to time people like to dig through it. As long as nobody made a mess, I honestly didn't care. If somebody found something useful, more power to them.

But in the last week, twice, I've had to walk out there and clean up trash that was scattered all over the ground because someone decided that putting it back where they found it was just too much work.

It's kind of like that old farm pond. Everybody wonders why the owner won't let people fish anymore, but nobody remembers the folks who left beer cans, bait containers, and fast-food wrappers all over the bank.

So here's where we are.

The dumpster is now officially off limits.

I'll be installing a camera system on it over the next few hours, and it will be monitored. If I catch anyone digging through the dumpster or throwing their household trash into our dumpster, I will prosecute to the fullest extent the law allows.

And if I happen to catch you in the act, don't worry. We'll probably have ten or fifteen minutes to visit while we wait for the proper authorities to arrive.

The good news for you is that I have excellent conversation skills.

The bad news for you is that I'm going to spend that entire conversation explaining how one grown adult somehow created extra work for another grown adult who already had enough to do.

I know this sounds ridiculous, and honestly, I hate that it has come to this. But I'm fed up with cleaning up trash just so I can come back a few hours later and clean up the same trash all over again.

I'd rather spend my time filling the store with bargains than playing raccoon wrangler.

So come shop, come laugh, come find a bargain, maybe even leave with a compressor or a crossbow...

But leave the dumpster alone.

And for the love of all that's holy, if you carry something to the trash can, carry it all the way to the trash can. My back and my blood pressure would both appreciate it.

06/08/2026

Well shortly I'll head out to load a trailer up with goodies for the store. I've been sitting here since 4 a.m. trying to come up with a good excuse not to fool with it today, but so far I haven't found one my boss would believe.

And before anybody asks...

Yes, I am the boss.

At least that's what it says on paper.

Reality, however, tells a very different story.

You see, there was a time when I was the fearless leader of these stores. Decisions were made by me. Rules were established by me. Policies were enforced by me.

Now?

Now I'm basically the mascot.

I'm the guy they put in pictures.

I'm the face on the business card.

I'm the decorative hood ornament on the management vehicle.

I don't actually drive the thing anymore.

At this point I think I have about as much authority as the metal knights standing outside the stores.

Speaking of which...

Let's talk about Fred and Little Henry.

Yesterday right before closing my phone rang.

It was Fred.

Now yes, Fred the knight.

And yes, he has somehow acquired a cell phone.

No, I don't know where he got it.

No, I don't know who added him to the family plan.

And no, I don't want to discuss how a seven-foot-tall metal knight with welded fingers is texting people.

There are mysteries in this universe we simply have to accept.

Fred says, "Joe, we need to talk."

Now when a giant metal knight says those words, you don't ignore him.

I've seen enough movies to know how that ends.

So I lock up and head to the back room.

Sure enough, here comes Fred.

And right behind him is Little Henry.

We sit down and before I can say a word Fred reaches into my cabinet and grabs my hidden bottle of mango brandy.

Which is there strictly for medicinal purposes.

By medicinal purposes I mean sometimes management gives me headaches.

Fred pours three shots.

One for him.

One for Henry.

One for me.

And before anybody gets upset about knights drinking, let me remind you they are metal.

The worst thing that can happen is they rust and start singing country music.

Fred throws his shot back and slams the glass down.

"Joe, you've got to fix this."

I said, "Fix what?"

He points toward the store.

"Misty."

Now let me tell y'all something.

When Fred said her name he didn't say it with anger.

He said it with fear.

The kind of fear usually reserved for tornadoes, tax audits, and women carrying clipboards.

I said, "What did Misty do?"

Fred says, "She's cleaning."

I said, "Well that's not so bad."

He looked at me like I was stupid.

"NOT SO BAD?"

He stood up.

"JOE, SHE CLEANED UNDER THE SHELVES."

The room went silent.

Even Little Henry looked uncomfortable.

Fred continued.

"Do you know what was under those shelves?"

I said, "Dust?"

He said, "HISTORY."

Then he started pacing.

"Joe, she has organized everything. She has labels. She has categories. She has systems. Yesterday I watched her move something from a pile and put it in a location where a normal human being could actually find it."

He took another shot.

"I didn't even know that was legal."

Then he leaned in close.

"Joe... she cleaned behind me."

I said, "Behind you?"

He nodded.

"Nobody cleans behind me. I've been standing there for years. There were dust bunnies behind me that had names. Families. Generational wealth."

At this point Little Henry raises his hand.

I said, "Go ahead, Henry."

He says, "I'd like to file a complaint too."

I said, "About Misty?"

He said, "No. Caroline."

Fred immediately nodded.

Apparently they had discussed this beforehand.

Little Henry says, "Joe, every morning Caroline comes in and talks to me."

I said, "Well that's nice."

He says, "No. You don't understand."

He takes a deep breath.

"Yesterday she dusted me off, straightened my armor, adjusted my sword and told me I was doing a great job protecting the store."

I said, "Still sounds nice."

Henry said, "JOE, I'M A METAL STATUE."

Then Fred jumps in.

"Tell him about the display."

Henry nods.

"She pointed at a display and said, 'Henry, don't let anybody mess this up today.'"

He stared at me.

"Joe, what exactly was my plan if somebody touched it?"

I said, "I don't know."

He said, "Exactly. I don't know either."

Then he gets really worked up.

"She tells me good morning every day. She tells me goodbye every night. Last week she told me she appreciated my hard work."

Fred nodded again.

"She told me the same thing."

At this point I was starting to understand.

These knights had become emotionally invested.

Then Fred says something that really hit me.

He says, "Joe, remember when you used to run things?"

That hurt.

Because I did remember.

Back in the old days people came to me with problems.

Now they go straight to Misty.

Or Caroline.

Or Jasmine.

Or Mel.

Or basically anybody except me.

Last week I tried to move something.

Somebody moved it back.

I don't even know who did it.

I think I got written up in my own store.

The other day I suggested a change and three employees looked at me the same way people look at a toddler trying to help fix a transmission.

One of them even patted me on the shoulder and said, "That's a nice idea, Joe."

A NICE IDEA.

That's what you tell children and confused senior citizens.

Folks, I've reached a point where I don't manage the stores anymore.

I just wander through them occasionally and provide comic relief.

I don't run operations.

I don't make decisions.

I don't even know where half the stuff is because Misty organized it so well that I can no longer rely on my old inventory system of "I think it was somewhere over there."

At this point if the stores were a kingdom, Misty would be the military commander, Caroline would be the queen, the employees would be the council, Fred and Little Henry would be the royal guards...
..and I'd be the guy hired to wave from the balcony during parades.

So I looked at Fred.

I looked at Little Henry.

And I told them the truth.

Boys...

There is absolutely nothing I can do.

Misty is going to continue her cleaning crusade until every dust particle within fifty miles either surrenders or relocates.

Caroline is going to continue talking to y'all like you're valued members of the team.

And me?

I'm going to go load a trailer, price merchandise, smile for pictures, and pretend I still have some control around here.

Because deep down we all know the truth.

I'm not the boss anymore.

I'm just the guy they let think he's the boss.

And honestly...

I'm pretty sure even the knights know it.

06/07/2026

As I sit here this morning with a cup of coffee that is probably stronger than my better judgment, I have come to the conclusion that my life is not normal.

Some of you wake up, eat breakfast, and head to work.

I wake up wondering if I have enough room in the thrift store to unload another truckload of junk that I absolutely did not need but absolutely had to buy.

Yesterday I told y'all I had a serious dilemma.

Auction or clean out a storage unit?

Well, because I apparently suffer from a medical condition known as "I might miss a deal," I did both.

The result?

The store is loaded.

I mean loaded.

We've got furniture.

We've got collectibles.

We've got enough inventory that if civilization collapses, I'm pretty sure somebody could survive six months inside Circle H. We may not have electricity, but by God you'll have three crock pots, seventeen coffee mugs with cats on them, and a slightly used recliner.

I still have more stuff to bring in.

The building itself is starting to make noises.

I walked by a shelf yesterday and I swear it whispered, "Joe... please... no more."

Now, while all this was going on, the internet decided I wasn't busy enough.

Last night, after hours, I get a message.

It starts out talking about John Schindler from Dukes of Hazzard.

Now I sat there for a minute.

I know I'm getting older.

I know my memory isn't what it used to be.

But I thought, "Did I have a stroke? Was there a Schindler brother? Did Bo Duke change his name? Did I accidentally switch over to the History Channel?"

Then I realized she probably meant John Schneider.

Okay. Honest mistake.

We've all fat-fingered a keyboard.

I once typed "yard sale" and somehow ended up posting "hard whale." To this day I don't know what a hard whale is, but I guarantee somebody on Facebook would try to sell me one.

So the conversation keeps going.

She says we have mutual friends.

She wants information about the event.

She thinks she might be able to reach out and get some items donated.

Now right here I need y'all to understand something.

I buy abandoned storage units for fun.

I deal with the general public every single day.

I have been lied to by professionals.

I have had people tell me a coffee-stained chair belonged to Elvis.

I've had people swear a broken lamp was worth ten thousand dollars because their cousin's neighbor's ex-husband once saw one on Antiques Roadshow.

I had one man look me dead in the eyes and tell me a box of rusty tools came from a secret government project.

So when somebody says, "We have mutual friends," my brain immediately starts asking questions.

Not because I'm rude.

Because I enjoy keeping my kidneys.

So I politely ask, "Who are our mutual friends?"

Seems reasonable.

Then somehow... and I still don't understand how we got here...

I get pictures with Mike Pence.

Now I don't know if that's the new Facebook version of showing references or what.

I wasn't expecting that.

I was expecting names.

I got politics.

I was expecting, "Oh, we both know Billy Bob."

Instead I got, "Here's me standing beside the former Vice President."

At this point I was looking around my own house wondering if I had accidentally joined the CIA.

And before somebody gets offended, I don't care if the picture had been with Mike Pence, Donald Trump, Barack Obama, George Bush, Ronald McDonald, or one of the guys from Duck Dynasty.

It still wouldn't have answered my question.

If I ask you what time it is and you show me a picture of yourself petting a giraffe, I'm just going to have more questions.

So let me clear a few things up before the rumor mill in this county starts working overtime.

This event is being put together by me and some good friends of the store.

That's it.

We have the Helms General Lee coming.

We've got a Rosco impersonator.

We've got a few surprises.

We've got a lot of excited people.

What we DO NOT have is a secret celebrity booking agency operating out of the back room of the thrift store.

I have not contacted movie stars.

I have not contacted television stars.

I have not contacted famous musicians.

Truth be told, half the time I don't answer my own phone.

I am not sitting in my office making deals with Hollywood.

I'm sitting in my office trying to remember where I stacked a box of toaster ovens.

And for the record, I think John Schneider seems like a decent guy.

If he walked through the front door I'd shake his hand, thank him for stopping by, and probably ask him if he wanted to help unload a truck because I'm running out of volunteers.

But Ole Joe has never been much for being star struck.

You know who impresses me?

The people that show up.

The people that volunteer.

The people that support local businesses.

The people that help a neighbor move a couch without asking for anything.

The grandparents raising grandkids.

The single parents grinding every day.

The old farmers still working after the rest of us are looking for a chair.

Those are the celebrities in my world.

The rest of us all put our pants on one leg at a time.

Well... most of us.

I've met a few people on Facebook that I think might just teleport into them.

Anyway, I've got to get to work.

I've got inventory to move.

I've got a store to run.

I've got more stuff coming in.

And judging by the way my week has been going, by lunchtime somebody will probably message me claiming they know Bigfoot, have lunch with Kid Rock every Thursday, and would like to donate the actual General Lee if I'll just send them my bank account information.

Y'all laugh, but if you've spent enough time on the internet, you know good and well that message is probably already on its way.

06/06/2026

You all take a minute and meet Mrs Caroline.

06/06/2026

Yesterday I did something that don't happen very often. I put on nice clothes. Hell, I even put on a suit jacket. I stuffed a little cash in my pocket and headed to a graduation ceremony.

Now before we go any further, some of what I say might upset a few people, and that's alright. If you've followed me for very long, you already know I ain't built to keep my mouth shut.

First and most important, I was damn proud to be invited by my niece to watch her walk across that stage. Nothing I say after this changes that one bit. Watching her graduate was an honor, and I wouldn't have missed it for anything.

One of the first things I noticed when I got there was the amount of law enforcement on hand. I'm not talking about two or three officers. I'm talking about a lot of them.

Now that didn't bother me. Hell, some of them are friends of mine, and of course I stopped and talked with a few. But the whole time I kept thinking, "Do they know something I don't about high school graduations?"

A little while later, with the gym packed full of family and friends supporting the Class of 2026, I got my answer.

The man on the stage stood up and informed us that we were not allowed to cheer for our graduate when they walked across the stage. Then he let us know that if we did, law enforcement had been instructed to remove us from the event.

Now let me be clear. I can understand wanting things organized. I can understand wanting every kid to have their moment.

But on the other hand, I was sitting there thinking, "This is some bu****it."

I'm a proud uncle. I want my niece to know I support her. Hell, I even put on a suit jacket, and if that don't earn me at least one whistle or a loud "That's my girl!" then what are we even doing here?

The part that really got under my skin wasn't being asked to stay quiet. It was being told law enforcement would remove us for cheering.

Last time I checked, standing up and yelling, "I'm proud of you!" wasn't against any law.

Then the graduates started walking across the stage.

You could see the pride on their faces. You could see the hard work, the excitement, and the relief. Truth be told, I didn't know most of those kids, but I was proud of every single one of them.

Then I heard my niece's name.

I watched her walk across that stage, and for one brief second I almost stood up and yelled, "Uncle Joey loves you, and I'm damn proud of you!"

I figured the worst they could do was ask me to leave.

But like a good, proper sheep, I sat back down and kept my mouth shut.

Then, toward the end, one family forgot the rules.

Their kid walked across that stage, and they cheered.

And I just sat there smiling, thinking, "Yep... those are my kind of people."

After the ceremony I waited outside while my niece talked with her friends. When she was done, I walked over, gave her a hug, and slipped a hundred-dollar bill into her hand.

I told her it was the best money I ever spent.

Then, while nobody else was listening, I whispered in her ear, "I'm proud of you. Now go out there and kick the world's ass. And remember, today is about you. Don't let anybody else make it about them."

Trust me, she knew exactly what I meant.

Then I turned around, headed for my truck, and started taking that suit jacket off before I even made it to the parking lot.

My hope is that she had an amazing day celebrating her victory.

And as for that hundred dollars, I hope she spends every bit of it on something fun. She's got the rest of her life to be responsible.

Maybe this weekend she can just be a kid with a hundred dollars to blow.

And if one day she remembers that her stubborn old uncle wanted to stand up and cheer for her but didn't because of the rules, I hope she also remembers this:

Nobody, and I mean nobody, will ever have to wonder if I'm proud of her.

Send a message to learn more

06/06/2026

This morning, as I sit here drinking the morning coffee, I have a real dilemma.

On one side of that dilemma... it's auction day. And you all know I enjoy a good auction. There is just something about standing around with a bunch of other grown adults, all pretending we don't need one more trailer load of junk while secretly hoping to drag home enough stuff to make the neighbors question our life choices.

But on the other side of that dilemma, I have a storage unit to clean out that is absolutely packed full. I guess I could put it off, but I looked at my schedule for the upcoming week and... well... I'll be damned if I can find another day to squeeze it in.

Maybe I can pull off a miracle. Clean out the unit and then make it to the auction.

Or maybe I could just say the hell with it, climb back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and pretend adulthood is somebody else's problem.

Now, I will admit, thinking about that option made me feel a whole lot better.

Of course, we all know that ain't happening. Bills don't pay themselves, storage units don't magically empty out, and if I stay in bed too long somebody at the store will probably call asking where I hid the price tags.

So I need some advice.

Are you Team Auction?
Go have some fun and figure the storage unit out later.

Or are you Team Responsibility?
Clean out the unit, miss the auction, and act like a mature adult for at least one day.

Cast your vote in the comments. Misery loves company, and if I'm going to make the wrong decision, I at least want a few of y'all to help talk me into it.

Send a message to learn more

06/04/2026