Perhaps one of the greatest sociology experiments of the modern world is the yard sale. There is no better place to observe human behavior, or note the varying degrees of individuality in humans, or appreciate the myriad manifestations of personal taste.
Lakewood had its annual community garage sale last weekend, and I decided to participate in this quintessential American venture for the first time. Little did I know that my eight-year-old grandson possessed all the qualities of a skilled negotiator, resembling the reincarnation of the charismatic Fuller Brush salesmen of yesteryears.
The night before the sale, as we were preparing, he turned to me and said, “Look, Mimi. It’s all about the deal. Everyone has to walk away happy.”
Who are you?
Throughout the two days of the sale, he assumed the role of a self-proclaimed business manager, running operations with an iron fist. Perched on a small lawn chair along the pathway, he oversaw his kingdom like a mafia Don presiding over a crucial meeting of families. He skillfully bargained prices, guarded the cash box, and rearranged the tables as our household items found new owners. His presence left an indelible impression on everyone, including myself and the visitors who looked over our pot holders and sporting goods. Some customers were so enamored by him that they even left him tips, a first in the history of yard sales.
My cousin had warned me about selling our stuff. She’d had exactly one garage sale in her life, and she claimed it was a disaster. She sat in the hot sun for hours on her driveway, waiting for the occasional car to come by. The shoppers who stopped bypassed the reasonably priced “good stuff” and wanted to engage her in a battle over the price of a 10 cent spoon.
“Don’t do it,” she said.
But I must admit, we had a great time. People from all walks of life came to Lakewood to shop in our residents’ driveways and we met and talked to dozens of people over two days. There was something really wonderful about chatting with people we were unlikely to see again. For just a short time, we laughed and chatted with folks about their lives or their families or why they might need an antique wheelbarrow or an old door.
And it’s true that a yard sale is the story of your life, and very revealing. On display were the hobbies we’d abandoned, the sports that proved too hard, the kind of books we liked and read, and all the kitchen gadgets that never quite lived up to our expectations. You could see that we weren’t eager to golf again or ride our tandem bike or hike any more mountains. Our stuff seemed to scream, “These folks are on the other side of their active years.” We sold two pairs of like-new skis, and my daughter admitted it made her sad to think that her parents might never ski again. The items we put out represented our past, and the symbols of that past were cluttering our basement.
Three doors down, a neighbor family had the kind of sale that resembled the inside of a Target store. My grandson went to spy on the competition and reported back that there was no way we could compete with them. “The good news,” he told us was that “they’re going to bring everyone to our street, so it’s a win-win.”
Shoppers at yard sales seem to approach the venture as some sort of inward, meditative experience, and they don’t want to be sold to. They’re looking to discover something special. They seem to have an acute sense of the value of things and the opportunity to haggle is half the fun.
We sold nearly everything, and what wasn’t sold, was stashed by the street so that it could be picked up by a village truck on “junk day” a few days later. Perhaps even more fun than the yard sale was watching the parade of pick up trucks as people grabbed whatever was left. Some were looking for scrap metal, others free abandoned treasures: one woman scooped up a book on writing I’d left by the curb, but no one wanted a brand new cookbook. By the time the junk truck cruised down our street on Monday, there were only a few things left.
I think we’ve finally whittled our lifelong possessions down to only what is truly loved or necessary. But I have to say, given a choice between the dumpster or the yard sale, I’d choose the yard sale any day. And if you have a scrappy little grandson to help you, all the better. But make no mistake, he’ll be looking for a cut of the action.
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