Garage-Sailing

A friend of mine recently had an outing with her adult sisters, and reported that they visited twenty-three garage sales in one day. I’m not nearly at their level, but I do admit to being captivated by the fluorescent signs that pop up around town, usually on Thursday mornings. 

This summer, I’ve decided to leave my garage-sailing adventures to chance, so I don’t study the newspaper advertisements, plotting out a route to make the most effective use of my time as I’ve been known to do in past years. Instead, if I see a sign, I turn down that street. A slow drive-by often gives me an idea of what might be available, especially if there are kids’ items towards the front of the driveway. Nana’s got her priorities!

This past week I stopped at a house in our neighborhood with a for sale sign on the lawn and an estate sale sign calling my name. I bought nothing at that sale, walking away with empty hands, but I’ve not been able to shake the emotions raised for me that morning.

There it was, displayed for all the world to see and to bargain over. The cupboards were cleared, the dressers emptied, and even the junk drawer was turned out, as the remains of a long life lined the driveway, hoping to be spared the dumpster. Their presence belied the old adage that one person’s junk becomes another’s treasure. Not so true in this case, as clearly the items begging to find a new home had been an old woman’s treasure only months before.

Like so many of us nearing or in our golden years, the assortment of music drew a timeline from record albums to eight-track tapes (by now mostly discarded), joined by cassette tapes and a handful of CDs. No Beatles albums or Jethro Tull, but I recognized a handful of Evie records because I once owned the same albums. Evie’s “Come On, Ring Those Bells” was a bit of a Salvation Army theme song for me back in the day.

Who was the woman who lived in this home, whom I assumed to be deceased?  She obviously took good care of her home, as evidenced by the lovely interior as well as the assortment of cleaning products and tools. Books, records and wall-hangings spoke of a life of faith, Now, looking back, I wish I would have spoken to the women who were running the cash box. “Tell me about your mother . . .”

Here’s the other thing that went through my mind as I gazed upon the remains of an estate, the detritus of a life. Someday, my sons and daughters-in-law will open our garage door, set up some wobbly tables, and spread out the accumulation of my life, of our family story. Will anyone want my carefully curated library, the baby grand that gracefully fills our living room, the Christmas decorations that have so much meaning to me? What about the little rocking chair with the caned seat that my great-grandmother used to rock her children? The wicker doll cradle, the elementary school scrapbook, the Frances Hook figurines?

We’ve got two VCRs and some Disney tapes, a cassette boom-box, and even a wire recorder and a Victrola. Not enough to interest Frank and Mike from American Pickers, but here they sit.

Will anyone want any of the books I’ve written? I’m worried about discovering one of my books at the library book sale, priced at one slim quarter, but the thought of my kids having to toss out a dozen copies of Only in Ashland– that breaks my heart.  But since I’ll either be in “the home” or resting in an urn on the mantle, I suppose it won’t really matter any longer.

Two songs, quite possibly on CDs buried in a box in my basement, are singing to me. Cookie Monster laments, “My cookie did crumble, ‘cause I held it too tight.”  And Michael Card stirs my spirit: “It’s hard to imagine the freedom we find from the things we leave behind.” I’m not quite ready for an all-out Marie Kondo purge, but maybe it’s time to plan a garage sale. Or not!