I enjoying spending an occasional afternoon wandering around flea markets and estate sales, looking for some old hidden antique. But I hate having a garage sale and trying to peddle my own junk. I’d like to pretend my time is worth more than the $200 I might earn in dollar bills and quarters. Even in my current happily unemployed state, I could be doing something more productive like scrubbing my toilets or weeding the flower beds. Nevertheless, every ten years like clockwork a moment of temporary insanity comes over me like strep throat, and I succumb.
Last weekend my neighbor had a sale complete with two porcelain toilets, a snowboard and the requisite two ton treadmill. In preparation, she posted pictures on Facebook and friends asked 1) if it was debris from the recent Dallas tornadoes, 2) if she was a hoarder, or 3) if she had kicked her husband and his stuff out onto the lawn. Her husband responded with, “Does someone have a stick? Would someone please poke me in the eye.” He hates garage sales too.
It’s funny how one day you are happily living with those objects in your house and the next morning before sunrise you’ve thrown the mess outside like dirty dish water. Those faded t-shirts that you were wearing just last week look so different strewn around the front yard with strangers rummaging through them, don’t they?
Last year John and I had a garage sale along with several families on our block. John disappeared for thirty minutes and returned with a set of bowling pins and a heavy meat grinder he bought from our next door neighbors. Really? This totally defeated the purpose. Why didn’t we all just swap our crap around the neighborhood at the next porch party without exchanging money? Or how about “I’ll give you one of my dollars for those books and you give me one of your dollars for my old towels?” Deal!
The next time John shoots a deer, I will be able to grind up meat and make deer sausage for the neighbors. If you know anything about John, you know we are much more likely to buy a bowling alley.
|John’s meat grinder.
Sammy Kershaw, “Yard Sale”
Paul McCartney, “Junk”