PHIPPSBURG, Me.

THERE is a four-letter word that many home decorators take pains to avoid, preferring, if a certain matter must be disclosed, a euphemism. But Jennifer Wurst — who lives with her partner in a rented, gray-shingled house in rural Maine, with rooms so spare and clean they could be the setting for a catalog shoot for the kind of high-end clothing Ms. Wurst cannot afford and would not buy anyway — uses the word shamelessly.

Her source for the white bedside table? “The dump.”

The dresser in the bedroom of their 18-month-old son, Finn? “It’s from the dump.”

Finn’s book about Johnny Appleseed? “The dump.”

The basket that holds the books? “The dump.”

Transfer station, recycling center — use phrases like that if you must. Ms. Wurst, a onetime elementary school teacher, feels no such compunction. She is rather proud of her dozens of dump finds: Weber grill, bird prints, glassware, ironing board, old flour sifter and coffee grinder (which coordinate nicely with the wood-burning stoves), mirrors, tables, chairs, tablecloths, lamps, bamboo blinds.

She also picks up furnishings at yard sales and auctions. Sure, her partner, Michael Fleming, is an artist and craftsman who tosses around phrases like “humble aesthetic” and speaks of the way driftwood “resonates,” but he can also toss around a hammer. He built their magnificent oak-and-maple bed, which is weathered silver and white. Of course, if he gets a buyer he will sell it.