“How much do you want for the plant stand?” A lady was holding up the white wrought iron plant stand that had cradled my favorite old fern in the living room years ago.
“Two dollars.”
“Will you take one dollar?”
“Sure.”
“If I buy all of the games, will you take less?” A man with a beard and a baseball cap was pointing to the large box full of games that my boys had outgrown.
“Okay.” Why not, it saved me the effort of unpacking the box.
“Mom, does the coffee pot still work?” A young woman with a toddler wanted to know.
That was 7:30 A. M.; the garage sale wasn’t supposed to start until 10:00 A. M. Even so, Mom and Dad’s yard was full of people, and more cars were pulling up to the curb. We were just starting to set things out; it already looked like it was going to be a successful day.
A neighbor and his teen-aged son were leaving their house to go fishing when they saw me trying to unload a heavy table from my pickup truck. Setting aside their fishing gear, they jogged over to help and then stayed to unload the three large boxes from the back of the truck. As the last of the boxes hit the ground, the young man noticed that one was full of my college-aged son’s gently used or never-worn clothing. “Look, Dad, these are perfect for school and they’re the right size!” Turning to me, he asked, “How much?”
“If you can use them, please take them, and thanks for all of the help.” Another box I didn’t have to unpack! How lucky could I be?!
People and cars came and went. By the time 10:00 A.M. came, we were ready for a break. We finally had everything out on the tables or hung up on racks, and things were slowing down. A neighbor I hadn’t seen for a while came over to sit on the steps and visit.
“Is Carol still living in California?” I asked. “How many children does she have now?” Carol, the last time I saw her, was a skinny seven-year-old, one of the flower girls at my wedding thirty- one years ago. It’s the same neighborhood but the kids grew up.
“And how’s retirement treating you?” Absorbed in catching up on all the neighborhood news, we almost forgot the customers. One young woman had picked up the electric broiler. I went back to my job.
“Do you want me to plug that in for you? It still works.”
A couple more purchases were made and I sat down again. While Mom fixed more coffee, Dad carried out another chair. More neighbors and relatives came by and we chatted some more as the garage sale continued.
One young family was looking for baby clothes. “No, sorry, we don’t have any.”
A neighborhood boy gave me a nickel for the wind-up frog that flip-flops and the little wind-up shoes that walk by themselves.
“Mom, this lady wants to know how wide the drapes are.”
“Dad, what do you want for the ladder?”
“There’s a man here asking about that old doll, but I can’t find a price tag.”
And so the time went. At 2 p.m. it was 98 degrees, so we moved our chairs under the shade trees and checked the Christmas candles to make sure that they were cool enough on the grass under the card table.
I was looking over the tables, refolding some items, when I noticed them. “Mom, I didn’t know that you were selling these,” I was whining, but tried not to be obvious. I clutched to my chest a pair of embroidered pillowcases that I recognized from years past. “Do you really want those old things?” Mom seemed surprised. “You’re welcome to them, but remember all of that old stuff has to be ironed.” I knew, but I didn’t care. I loved those old pillowcases. I ran into the house to put them with the other things I had set aside— the rattan clothes hamper, the old basket vase, a demitasse saucer with no cup, a hooked rug base with a pattern of dog, and a small serving plate that might match a cup and saucer I have.
How tightly we sometimes cling to things—the plates that had belonged to a dear friend who had passed away, the subtle reminders of childhood security and comfort, even my aunt’s orange polyester jumpsuit with the silver rivets around the neck and her Sandra Dee type dresses from the 1960’s. I remember how fashionable she looked when they were new. It’s difficult to put a price on what is made priceless by the memories wrapped tightly around it.
But, with the heat of the day and our fatigue, the memories separated more easily from the items and were gently stowed away in the proper place—our hearts. The prices fell to the point of a give-away, the “free-bee box”, encompassing most of the yard. By five p.m., the last of the garage “sailors” had pulled away from the curb and the few neighbors still sitting under the shade tree were starting to talk about fixing supper. We began to box up what was left.
“Oh, I thought sure someone would want this; maybe I’ll keep it after all.” “Are you sure you don’t want one of these? Here, put it in with your stuff” Once the redistribution had taken place, we stored the remaining boxes to take to a local charity. We were tired, but it had been a great day!
Some folks won’t consider doing a garage sale—too much work and trouble, they claim. Yes, but if you consider it a combination family reunion, neighborhood block party, a social event of community magnitude, a family archives and archeological dig, and an exercise in self-awareness, it’s worth every muscle ache. Besides, it is fun, and you can’t put a price on that!
