So early Saturday morning there we were putting stickers on mugs I do not think I had ever seen before and nailing “Yard Sale” signs to telephone poles (I know, we’re not supposed to). We pulled what seemed enough stuff to fill a boxcar out of the house and set it all out on makeshift tables constructed with plywood and saw horses.
There were three categories of refuse and gems in the sale. First, stuff I did not want to sell. Granted, these were baseball hats, books, and other accumulations I had not seen in years. But all of a sudden I wanted each item back in the house. No deal. Second, there was the stuff I never knew we had – like the mugs – and wondered where it all came from. Third, the kids stuff.
It is funny how quickly big parts of life become historic. Seeing a book called “The Big Red Barn,” which I still can recite from memory and must have read over 1,000 times. There it sat on a sheet of plywood. For sale for a quarter. The kids did not remember the book.
We didn’t need to put too many signs out because there was an estate sale down the road; we took the overflow. I was shocked at how many people poured into the yard and began pulling through all we’d put out to sell.
Books went fast at first. Fistfuls of hardcovers never read; dog-eared paperbacks, most brought back from airports. The winter stuff – helmets, ski poles, hats, gloves and mittens – did not move. There must be a trick to retail; I figured a sheet of plywood thrown over a wheelbarrow with a sticker saying ‘$2 each’ would drive sales through the roof. We did not sell one matched mitten.
There was no one type of person visiting the yard sale. We sold a bracelet to a woman from Quebec driving a 1963 Vauxhall. We had neighbors and friends come by. I am sure we will one day stop at a yard sale at one of their houses and buy back the popcorn popper, the Monopoly Junior Game, or two Christmas mugs. I think a friend bought something at the yard sale he actually gave us years ago. I can’t be sure.
One couple came by having driven into town from a rural outpost up here in Northern Vermont. We are only a half an hour drive away but it, the town of Belvidere, is Brigadoon to our ordinary. We talked about Belvidere Mountain, which is remote, beautiful and rugged. They talked about how many moose they see, how a buddy chased a moose with his car up their driveway and that in winter there is so much snow they can’t get out. “We never see anyone until spring,” the woman said, and I can’t really be sure she was kidding. I don’t remember whether they bought something, but it was fun talking with them.
On Saturday, the crowds died off before noon. We sat and read the paper, checked the tables and rearranged things (maybe if I stacked the books by size they’ll sell faster … ), and ate some lunch. It picked up again early afternoon. By the end of the day about half of what we’d hauled from the house was gone.
Sunday morning a few early birds came by. A very nice woman bought a Navajo rug. I remember when I bought that rug. It was 1989. I had been hiking in and around the Grand Canyon and the mountains outside of Flagstaff, Arizona. I bought the rug from a crazy man selling everything you can think of from the back of his car slid onto the side of the road in the desert. The woman who bought it noticed it right away. She said she liked the color. She also bought a mirror with a white wicker frame. She negotiated a good price and I said ‘sure.’
David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio
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