Where I Got (Most Of) My Vintage: The DonnaLand Year

Top Floor of the Lemp: Diving Through 22 Tons of Vintage (and Climbing Out With a Business)

I didn’t plan on becoming a vintage seller. It was 2011, St. Louis, and I was volunteering at the Carondelet Historical Society, photographing their clothing collection—living inside old seams and hand stitches, obsessed with the history of fabric and the way photos hold time still. My friend Brittany (pinup, retro, the whole aesthetic) said, “You should sell vintage.”

That’s how I first met Donna Knott and climbed into DonnaLand Vintage Variety—literally.

We’re talking top floor of one of the Lemp Brewery warehouses in South City. Not the section that collapsed in 2020 —one building over, if memory serves. Getting up there meant either the spooky back stairs or a freight elevator that groaned like it had opinions.

And then you’d step into it: a sea of clothing, bales and boxes as far as you could see. Twenty-two tons of it.

The 22-Ton Story (and Why It Smelled Like 1988)

The lore—as I remember it—was that a guy had ended up with the contents of a Goodwill that closed in the late ’80s. He moved everything to the Lemp top floor and baled it up like hay.

Somewhere in there a cigarette (or a spark) met fabric, the sprinklers did their job, and the clothes got soaked. Years later, Donna was salvaging what she could. She ripped open bales, set out giant “gaylord” boxes, and we dove in.

There were literally 22 tons of vintage clothing.

I wish I could bottle the smell of that top floor (on second thought… maybe not). Picture a drafty brick room the size of a skating rink, mountains of clothes, and rows of industrial cardboard boxes. Some bales were still wrapped in plastic, pulsing with damp history.

People wore N95s because the dust and damp were… robust. I was young, stubborn, allergy-lucky, and just went for it. We’d climb into boxes shoulder-deep, run our hands along collars for fiber content, feel for real wool vs. acrylic, look for old union tags by touch. Sometimes it felt like treasure.

Sometimes it was just heavy and wet and smelled like old stories.

Visuals from the Vault: The Lemp Era

Selling Without a Plan (And Burning Out Anyway)

Donna noticed I was a workhorse. For about a year, I worked in exchange for vintage— $20 an hour in trade credit instead of $8 in cash. I also built her first website. It was chaotic and magical and very real. At some point there was drama (warehouse life has gravity for that); I was blamed for something I didn’t do, we parted ways, and life got loud.

But by then the damage was done—in the best way. I’d fallen in love with vintage.

I launched into selling like most people do—sideways. Listing, photographing, guessing shipping, guessing pricing, no inventory system, no map. Every sale was a little victory… followed by thirty minutes of “where did I put that dress?”

I timed myself once and realized I was making about $5 an hour after all the steps. Meanwhile I freelanced websites—one big client every few months. Feast and famine. Messy cashflow. I did it all by feel. That works until it doesn’t.

By 2015, my relationship was failing, and I got out. I moved my inventory out of my ex’s warehouse, triaged hard, and tossed anything I couldn’t sell for at least $10. (Do I regret some of that in hindsight? Absolutely. No one is sentimental like a vintage seller with hindsight.)

Even so, I kept hundreds of pieces—boxed with tissue, moved from place to place, sometimes in unscented white garbage bags because a Honda Civic is not a box truck and life is practical. Could storage have been better? Sure. But it was dry. It was cared for. It survived with me.

What I Learned the Hard Way

The first time around I ran Vintage Reveries like a romantic—heart first, systems nowhere. Then I spent the next decade working inside other people’s businesses.

I learned the boring, beautiful truth: systems are mercy. Process is a love language.

Fast feedback loops beat vibes. Tools should be “best,” not “latest.” And then AI landed in my life—finally a way to offload the rote and keep the human nuance. Which is how this post exists: I voice-dumped the story, pulled a transcript, and let my brand-voice GPT help me shape it. Not to erase me—just to catch the rhythm that’s already mine and keep me moving.

“Warehouse dust gave me my eye. Systems gave me my business.”

2025: Coming Back With a Spine (and Systems)

This year, in the middle of moving to West Lafayette and getting my St. Louis duplex ready for a tenant, I woke up and realized my inventory had mostly held its value.

I soft-relaunched before Black Friday/Cyber Monday with fewer than 100 listings, priced smart, and moved what makes sense. I know what I have. I’m open to offers, but I’m not giving it away. I still love coats and higher-end pieces. I still get a little high on a great label.

Sourcing? I’ll explore it again—but not from scarcity. Goodwill can be great; Goodwill can be overfished. I’m more drawn to estate buyouts, private picks, and consignments where I can apply what I do best: build clean processes, produce honest listings, and get pieces into the hands of people who will actually wear, love and treasure them.

And yes, I still think about those Lemp days—the freight elevator, the boxes, the way a single perfect seam could make a filthy afternoon worth it. That’s where I got most of my stock. That’s where I learned to see.

What I’d Tell 2011 Me (So I’ll Tell You)

• Inventory is oxygen. Unique SKU for every item. Location bin. Photo naming that matches the SKU. Done.
• List faster than you think you can. Templates, checklists, batch photography, batch measurements.
• Track time and margin. If a $35 sale takes two hours, it’s a $7/hour job. Adjust or pass.
• Store thoughtfully. Fold, tissue, box; avoid hangers for heavy coats; control humidity; label everything.
• Choose your channels. Don’t try to be everywhere. Pick the two or three that pay you back and go deep.
• Let AI help. Drafts, bullet-to-paragraph, bulk-size charts, tag suggestions. Keep your voice; outsource the grunt work.
• Protect your love for it. If you’re exhausted, the clothes will feel heavy. Build a pace you can keep.

What’s Next

I’m still listing from that 2011–2012 haul (it followed me through moves and seasons for a reason). I’m also putting out feelers for estate buyouts, private lots, and selective consignments. If you’ve got a closet or collection with stories baked in, I’m your person. I know how to listen—to garments and to people.

And if all you need today is a scroll through history: the shop is open, imperfect and alive, just like it started.