In this web-only feature, writer Elissa Paquette explains that while you can learn a lot from what people sell at yard sales, you can learn even more by what they don't sell.
A tall, lean man in his forties is standing in our macadam driveway perusing bottles of iridescent nail polish set out on the card table before him. We are his third and last yard sale stop in the neighborhood. My daughters, ages thirteen and fifteen, eye him curiously, wondering what use he has for nail polish. They stand by the table expectantly, eager to turn relics of their childhood into pocket cash; necklaces of plastic beads, neon jelly bracelets once worn with joyous pride, five or six at a time, pocketbooks, begged for and deemed terribly stylish, now an embarrassment.
He picks out two small bottles of the gooey substance, one bright red, the other an iridescent deep blue.
“You know what I’m going to do with these?†he asks. We have no idea.
“I’m going to use them to mark mountaineering equipment. I take groups of people out on hikes, and it’s a real easy way to keep everything straight. Color code it.†Clever. This guy has an imagination.
He thrusts his freckled hand into his pocket for some quarters. “ I can see that the families in this neighborhood are growing up. You know, you can tell a lot about people by what they have for sale.â€
He’s quite right. Eager to lighten up on junk, I had decided to hold a spring yard sale, inviting two other families to haul out their tired possessions, too. We were all ready to give up pieces of our lives that had lost their luster. One family specialized in outgrown clothing and sports equipment, hoping to raise money to make way for the next round. The other filled its driveway with the paraphernalia of its two elementary-schoolers’ infancies and toddlerhoods. Car seats in graduated sizes looked strangely out of place sitting on the dusty gravel, outgrown, unwanted. There was a Johnny jumper seat in a heap. When attached to a door frame, it holds a baby safely, feet dangling, in place for jumping ---- incessant jumping, while harried parents do their chores. A brightly colored, plastic play gym and assorted toys no longer in favor beckoned to parents with toddlers in tow.
Our gleanings were more eclectic and ranged farther back in time. Wooden sawhorses held up a spare piece of plywood to display transplanted spider and aloe vera plants, an old TV, fishing rods, and household miscellany. My husband continually upgrades his fishing gear, so there is a variety of cast-off equipment for sale. He also dragged several rusty muskrat traps out of the garage. They’ve come along each time we’ve moved over the past twenty years, and he knew he would have neither the time nor the interest to use them again. He used to run lines of traps with his father along the banks of the Connecticut River. Those days are long gone. He won’t forget them. He has a crisscross scar between his fore and middle fingers from the claws of an angry muskrat.
My Gibson guitar, in its beaten-up black case, rested against the legs of an oak chair that I had picked up at a yard sale, refinished, and had recaned. The chair was ready for a new cycle of repair. The guitar, purchased with my own money at age fourteen, had never had a decent chance to produce the beautiful music for which it was made. I tried to teach myself to play with a book of Beatles’ tunes but didn’t work at it very long. I was more enamored with the Beatles’ music and their mystique than the discipline and callouses the instrument demanded.
Those were the days of miniskirts, boots, and long, straight hair. The boots were easy. The short skirts involved an ongoing effort to keep garter-belt hooks from showing while I sat at my desk in school. Industry hadn’t responded as yet with pantyhose. Long, straight hair was most difficult to achieve. I would crouch down and spread my wavy tresses across an ironing board and , my arms askew, actually iron my hair. “ Wavy hair is more interesting. Your hair is beautiful,†my father would say, but I wouldn’t listen. The voice of fashion was stronger.
My younger daughter has carelessly plucked the guitar’s strings from time to time, imagining herself a star. Now a string is missing, and the bridge is warped. I took it to a music store for an estimate and am ready to sell it. It is time to pass it along to more capable hands.
Next: "She looks to see what she wants; I look to see what I feel I can let go."
Pages: 1 | 2 | 3
Delicious
Digg
Reddit
Facebook
Google
Yahoo