By Elizabeth Jones
In case you were wondering just how many mannequins a girl can fit in her RAV4, the answer is: two, comfortably, five if you put one in the passenger seat and are totally fine driving around Fort Worth looking like a Dateline episode. Ask me how I know.
Anyone who has ever met a professional organizer knows one thing with absolute certainty: their personal vehicles are never organized. Ask any professional organizer — in any city — when was the last time their car was completely empty. They might cry. Or hug you. The end of our days (because everyone knows you take donations on the same day) was spent hauling other people’s stuff away. It’s like the mobile version of a mullet: business in the front and party in the back. And boy, have I partied.
When you’ve spent almost 15 years in the pantries and kitchens and closets of clients who shared limos with Marvin Hamlisch, had Bill Paxton on speed dial, and personally know the entire contents of Kevin Costner’s Dopp kit because it may or may not have been sitting open in their guest bathroom, you tend to have some epic donations.
Enter The Welman Project.
Located at 3950 West Vickery Blvd., the Welman Project is the love child of Vanessa Barker and Taylor Willis, best friends (almost) since preschool. It all started the day they met in Ms. Carol Catching’s Pre-K class at First United Methodist in downtown Fort Worth. Oh, yeah, there’s an adorable class photo. I’ve seen it. But in true meet-cute fashion, it wasn’t until Taylor saw her own 5-year-old face staring back at her in the photo hanging in Vanessa’s hallway during one 6th-grade sleepover that they even remembered meeting each other for the first time. The rest was history.
Years later, what started as an attempt to offload 25 pounds of faux snow after a New York Fashion Week eventually turned into a one-of-a-kind matchmaking service for the classrooms and teachers of Fort Worth I.S.D. and all our “weirdest” stuff. For a sentimental maximalist organizer who never met a collection she didn’t love, I was all in.
Things I’ve taken to Welman: more faux snow, 1,327 art books, 1,033,027 office supplies, 5,711 pieces of vintage ephemera that clients were about to toss in the trash, more vintage slides and photographs than I could count, a life-sized stuffed gorilla and five mannequins.
But wait, there’s more. The Welman Project isn’t just a place for your most unique donations. Their thrift store is also one of the best times I’ve ever had. Not as great as Robert-Redford-washing-my-hair-in-Out-of-Africa great. But it’s a close second.
Picture this: The warehouse in the back is stocked with everything a teacher could possibly need in their classroom. They come in, show some identification, and then shop the aisles. And by “shop,” I mean it’s all free to them. It’s like Supermarket Sweep. Without the canned hams and bulk vitamins and running. Meanwhile, I’m braking for all the coolest thrift finds Fort Worth has to offer in the front. It’s like a reverse mullet — business in the back and party in the front.
Things I’ve bought at Welman: A one-armed bowler bowling trophy, every bound volume of Life magazine from 1935-1960, the 10-yard line marker from the set of 12 Mighty Orphans, and one papier-mâché bride. Not the groom. Who looked like he was on his way to a crypto conference immediately following the honeymoon. And who was gesturing strangely towards his nether regions (I suspect the couple was facing each other and holding hands at the wedding before they were ripped apart). I just bought the bride.
There’s even a place called Dad’s Garage, a craft space at The Welman Project where kids from 8 to 108 can come and make new things out of all the old stuff you’ve donated. For adults, there is the Hot Mess Craft Club, a monthly BYOB craft night. Y’all go ahead, though. I tried it. Twice. It turns out there’s not enough wine on the planet to allow these hands to make a mess. Even in the pursuit of a decoupaged clamshell.
There’s something magical about a thing finding its perfect place in this world. Don’t get me wrong. Most days, I have RSF: Resting Shoebill Face. (And if you’ve never seen a shoebill stork, Google it IMMEDIATELY.) But when that huge stash of mismatched buttons most of you have masquerading as a tin of Royal Dansk butter cookies turns into a framed button version of Van Gogh’s Starry Night, it moves even the shoebilliest among us.
What’s even more magical is when people find their perfect place. Ask anyone who works there, volunteers there, shops there, donates there, or crafts there: The Welman Project calls to its people. We feel it. And it’s not like the stabbing pain I feel in my chest when someone has mismatched hangers. No. It’s the feeling of a 9-year-old organizer sitting all alone at a lunch table — because no one wanted to hear her thesis on Trapper Keeper organization — finally finding her Cirque du Soleil.
If you want to find out more about The Welman Project, visit thewelmanproject.org.
Elizabeth Jones is a professional organizer by day and a professional spinster by night. Sometimes she’s even funny. You can find her at nestandtransformation.com or on Instagram as The OCD Bachelorette.