Sailing
“Garage-sailing” became the best venue to interact with my grown daughter early on Saturday mornings this summer. The only way to get to know her, as an adult, seems to require a loss of sleep on my part. Her menagerie of young children, pets, and strong-willed husband leaves little time for me to ever talk privately with her.
After four or five hours of visiting garage and yard sales across our city, seeing children selling toys and lemonade, and young families selling all their furniture for an upcoming transfer to another state, our best time is spent afterward, sharing a Starbuck’s brew and relaxing in their cool coffee house. "Garage sailing" is hard work!
Estate sale. While driving around, directed by our Garmin Nuvi navigator digital screen map, we discovered an “estate sale.” Estate sales are held when heirs of a deceased or displaced family want to sell everything left to them. They hire a specialty company to come into the house, inventory everything, and place a high price on each item. Then, they advertise the estate sale, set up a cash register at the front door, and sell everything to those like us who walk in searching for a bargain, giving bigger discounts off the ridiculously high prices as the days pass.
That should be the end of this story, but it is not. As we trekked around town over these past weeks, there are some things worthy of mentioning, for my own family members, who might later inherit something that I own.
Glass lady. The “glass lady” estate sale exposed that she had a knack for making totally useless glass figurines of all shapes and sizes. Wind chimes and pickles and fruit made of crystal-clear and colored glass were offered at bargain prices from fifty cents to ten dollars each. And on day three of the sale, all items were discounted by fifty percent. As I stood looking out her kitchen window on her patio at the scavengers going through boxes of her clothes and old musty paperback novels, two small stained-glass snowflakes tucked away behind a cheap kitchen curtain on a suspension rod peeked out at me. They were priced at only a dollar! Now, they hang in my bathroom window. Did the glass lady ever suspect that I would one day salvage her prizes, her creations for less than the price of a cold drink?
Kiwanis Club. Another estate sale featured the personal items of a past president of a local Kiwanis Club, circa 1976. His frames and gilded certificates still hung proudly on his “ego wall.” Certificates of appreciation, bordered by shiny plaques with etchings commemorated volunteer service to his community. One large gold frame contained a walnut gavel glued to a brass background inscribed, “For Faithful Dedicated Service.” Mr. President never dreamed that I could have purchased all his mementoes for less than a dollar. I passed on everything there, preferring to earn my own reminders of successes. However, I did think twice about the walnut gavel.
Snob Hill. One trip to an area of our town dubbed “Snob Hill” allowed commoners like us a tour of an “old-money” mansion, previously occupied by one of our city’s elites. Large wooden turned stair rails, thick carpet, and authentic Mexican tile in the kitchen and veranda complemented the works of art on the wall. Watercolors, oil paintings, and carved marble statues adorned the proud central receiving areas of the home. Three full stories up, half a dozen bedrooms were decorated with motifs of lace and frills. And I wondered, “What would this proud family have done if they had any idea I would be here, inspecting their prize purchases from around the world, with the ability to use my credit card and buy any of them?” But we resisted, after being severely tempted by an old bear rug priced at just a bit over a hundred dollars.
Moth balls. My most recent estate sale adventure left me sad, noticing that all of the clothing for an elderly man and woman were both still hanging in their closets, and that photographs of their children were still on the dressers, slightly bronzed by age. What had taken both of these folks at the same time? Was it death? Or was it a nursing home? I decided not to dwell on that issue. Instead, I wandered through their kitchen, noticing the crystal still in the cupboard, and the knives and forks bundled up for sale at bargain prices. Into the bedrooms, I found a pennant from Notre Dame, tennis trophies from the Country Club, and a “Life Award “of some type in an expensive frame. Why did everything smell of moth balls?
Voyeur. What part of me has been changed after becoming such a voyeur? Why do I feel compelled to “look” and then walk out of each house feeling somewhat dirty? I suspect that attending such estate sales has impacted me the same as attending a funeral for a distant relative or a business acquaintance. I sense that I am seeing my own future, and the gross lack of appreciation for a life well lived, by people who have no appreciation for what has transpired in their lives or family. The auctioning-off of possessions here smacks of the same distaste as a bankruptcy sale at a local farmhouse.
My estate. Knowing such valuable things now, instead of after it is too late to make changes, is very important to me. What should I do to keep such vile people out of my home, my house, and my memories, becomes the question. I really don’t know. However, my resolutions include a new will outlining the handling of my “estate” in some manner other than inviting the locals to walk my halls, judge my taste, and end my legacy so well accumulated and displayed as it is now. My arrowhead collection and coins will be bequeathed to the grandchildren. My gun will be delivered to my son. My father’s railroad watches will sit on my children’s mantles, and the rest won’t matter.
I wonder what other valuable trinkets I should give away before I lose them in some estate sale sponsored by some rude distant relative or debtor, who doesn’t appreciate my particular hillbilly taste.
© 2009 Jordan Family All Rights Reserved
Photo/Karen Jordan
What is you best garage sale discovery?
After four or five hours of visiting garage and yard sales across our city, seeing children selling toys and lemonade, and young families selling all their furniture for an upcoming transfer to another state, our best time is spent afterward, sharing a Starbuck’s brew and relaxing in their cool coffee house. "Garage sailing" is hard work! Estate sale. While driving around, directed by our Garmin Nuvi navigator digital screen map, we discovered an “estate sale.” Estate sales are held when heirs of a deceased or displaced family want to sell everything left to them. They hire a specialty company to come into the house, inventory everything, and place a high price on each item. Then, they advertise the estate sale, set up a cash register at the front door, and sell everything to those like us who walk in searching for a bargain, giving bigger discounts off the ridiculously high prices as the days pass.
That should be the end of this story, but it is not. As we trekked around town over these past weeks, there are some things worthy of mentioning, for my own family members, who might later inherit something that I own.
Glass lady. The “glass lady” estate sale exposed that she had a knack for making totally useless glass figurines of all shapes and sizes. Wind chimes and pickles and fruit made of crystal-clear and colored glass were offered at bargain prices from fifty cents to ten dollars each. And on day three of the sale, all items were discounted by fifty percent. As I stood looking out her kitchen window on her patio at the scavengers going through boxes of her clothes and old musty paperback novels, two small stained-glass snowflakes tucked away behind a cheap kitchen curtain on a suspension rod peeked out at me. They were priced at only a dollar! Now, they hang in my bathroom window. Did the glass lady ever suspect that I would one day salvage her prizes, her creations for less than the price of a cold drink?
Kiwanis Club. Another estate sale featured the personal items of a past president of a local Kiwanis Club, circa 1976. His frames and gilded certificates still hung proudly on his “ego wall.” Certificates of appreciation, bordered by shiny plaques with etchings commemorated volunteer service to his community. One large gold frame contained a walnut gavel glued to a brass background inscribed, “For Faithful Dedicated Service.” Mr. President never dreamed that I could have purchased all his mementoes for less than a dollar. I passed on everything there, preferring to earn my own reminders of successes. However, I did think twice about the walnut gavel.
Snob Hill. One trip to an area of our town dubbed “Snob Hill” allowed commoners like us a tour of an “old-money” mansion, previously occupied by one of our city’s elites. Large wooden turned stair rails, thick carpet, and authentic Mexican tile in the kitchen and veranda complemented the works of art on the wall. Watercolors, oil paintings, and carved marble statues adorned the proud central receiving areas of the home. Three full stories up, half a dozen bedrooms were decorated with motifs of lace and frills. And I wondered, “What would this proud family have done if they had any idea I would be here, inspecting their prize purchases from around the world, with the ability to use my credit card and buy any of them?” But we resisted, after being severely tempted by an old bear rug priced at just a bit over a hundred dollars.
Moth balls. My most recent estate sale adventure left me sad, noticing that all of the clothing for an elderly man and woman were both still hanging in their closets, and that photographs of their children were still on the dressers, slightly bronzed by age. What had taken both of these folks at the same time? Was it death? Or was it a nursing home? I decided not to dwell on that issue. Instead, I wandered through their kitchen, noticing the crystal still in the cupboard, and the knives and forks bundled up for sale at bargain prices. Into the bedrooms, I found a pennant from Notre Dame, tennis trophies from the Country Club, and a “Life Award “of some type in an expensive frame. Why did everything smell of moth balls?
Voyeur. What part of me has been changed after becoming such a voyeur? Why do I feel compelled to “look” and then walk out of each house feeling somewhat dirty? I suspect that attending such estate sales has impacted me the same as attending a funeral for a distant relative or a business acquaintance. I sense that I am seeing my own future, and the gross lack of appreciation for a life well lived, by people who have no appreciation for what has transpired in their lives or family. The auctioning-off of possessions here smacks of the same distaste as a bankruptcy sale at a local farmhouse.
My estate. Knowing such valuable things now, instead of after it is too late to make changes, is very important to me. What should I do to keep such vile people out of my home, my house, and my memories, becomes the question. I really don’t know. However, my resolutions include a new will outlining the handling of my “estate” in some manner other than inviting the locals to walk my halls, judge my taste, and end my legacy so well accumulated and displayed as it is now. My arrowhead collection and coins will be bequeathed to the grandchildren. My gun will be delivered to my son. My father’s railroad watches will sit on my children’s mantles, and the rest won’t matter.
I wonder what other valuable trinkets I should give away before I lose them in some estate sale sponsored by some rude distant relative or debtor, who doesn’t appreciate my particular hillbilly taste.
© 2009 Jordan Family All Rights Reserved
Photo/Karen Jordan
What is you best garage sale discovery?
Posted by Karen Jordan at 11 Jul 2011 
Categories: Building Legacies, Blessed, Encouraging Spiritual Stories
Tags: children family father grandchildren home inheritance legacy memoir moving relationships remembering treasure garage sale
Categories: Building Legacies, Blessed, Encouraging Spiritual Stories
Tags: children family father grandchildren home inheritance legacy memoir moving relationships remembering treasure garage sale
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