I love garage sales. If someone knocked on my door and said, “Can you take me on a singing tour of your home?” the answer would be yes, the song would be “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music, and I would glide and twirl from room to room, pointing out all the treasures I’ve acquired from years of perusing other people’s junk.

Garage sales. Yard sales. Estate sales. Or, as my husband affectionately calls them all, shit sales. There’s something about getting up early on a crisp fall or balmy spring Saturday morning, grabbing a cup of coffee, heading out to A Neighborhood You Thought Was Just A Few Blocks Away (but now, you can’t remember the cross streets or whether you saw it on Craigslist or Facebook so just turn here…oh, wait…here it is…it’s in Eudora…well, that’s only 30 minutes from here, right?) and rummaging through strangers’ outdated belongings covered in dog hair.  It’s such an adrenaline rush!

Because when you find that piece…that thing you didn’t even know you couldn’t live without…it’s exhilarating!  The fabulously chipped & worn desk that would make a perfect dresser. The antique milk can you practically stole for $5. The art deco magazine holder, flanked by silhouettes of flapper-style ladies, the owner of which wistfully yet firmly insists you take, even when she cries and takes a bunch of pictures before helping you load it into your car. (“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was my grandma’s. I don’t want to keep it, but it’s still hard to let go.”  As I pulled away, I rolled down my window and shouted, “I promise to take care of it always!”)

Sometimes, things have a way of finding you. About 12 years ago, I stumbled upon this  painting of a young woman, adorned in a beautiful pink gown and grasping a book, sitting in the middle of a lush forest. It was love at first sight. I think it was marked $40, which meant I probably had to go hunt down an ATM and dip into my savings. But that painting spoke to me. It conveyed beauty, confidence, grace, quiet solitude, and peace.  I remember thinking, If I ever have a daughter, I will put this in her room.  I did, and I did.  And sometimes, I find myself staring longingly at this scene, wishing I could grab my book and go join her in the lush, quiet forest, where no one whines or tattletales or calls you “terrible at ponytails.”

I also hate garage sales. Because they can get personal.

Last weekend, I headed west to help Mom with her booth in a Salina-area garage sale event. “Event” being the operative word here, because that indicates a public affair, and that means people. Everywhere. Meandering in and among small booths in tight quarters. Which made it really hard to find a place to just stand nonchalantly with my coffee cup, Johnson County mom-style.

And all these people…they annoyed me. The way they strolled past our booth, not even walking in to get a closer look.  How are you going to find the cow salt & pepper shaker set like that?  And it just didn’t seem like they showed the right amount of deference and respect to Mom’s collection of bistro-chef kitchen decor. And they obviously had no imagination or creativity, or they would have seen all the potential and possibilities with the set of wood-like bookshelves, a steal at $2/each!

And sir, I saw you pick up the Roy D. Mercer cassette tapes, scrunch up your face, and put them back down. Well, the joke’s on you, because my dad & grandpa used to listen to those stupid tapes and laugh so hard they’d cry. So…your loss. I guess you hate laughing, you miserable man.

And to the woman who bought a few items, then asked if we would hold them while she finished looking around. That’s fine. But don’t come back an hour later and say, “Where’s my sign?”  What do you mean, YOUR sign?  You mean that sign that said FAMILY that sat on OUR mantle in OUR living room, where we’d spend every Christmas Eve fighting about whether to play Catchphrase or Scattergories, and then fight about who wasn’t playing by the rules, and then pout and go off in our corners, until Dad made Rotel dip, showing us the true reason for the season.  Is that the sign you’re talking about?!   But I just took her 50¢ and said “Enjoy!”

When I felt myself getting a little overwhelmed and needing a reminder that it is just stuff, I’d head over to the Amish table to try and absorb some of their humility, simplicity and baked goods. It helped.

The best part was watching the girls work the booth. Viv was on a mission to make sure everything was priced, and Suz was our best customer, borrowing $1.25 from Grandma Cindy to purchase a silicone basting brush that she uses to style her hair, and a couple of baby shirts to surprise her dolls with.