The Garage sale of the century ... and we couldn't stop

With the weather turning warmer and the desire to get some spring cleaning done, the Garage Sale Season is upon us. Racks of clothing, boxes of mismatched dishes, and slightly used kitchen appliances are finding their ways to lawns and driveways across the area. While the northeast is digging its way out of snowbanks, we in North Texas are digging our way out of the accumulation of debris which slows our lives. We pull out the folding tables, the ironing boards, and the make-shift counters on which to display the items we don’t need. Even if we end the day with little money, we have finally cleared a way through the rubble.

I hate getting ready for a garage sale. The last time I had one, I sold the bouncy chair which was used by my thirty-something daughter. Although it did not meet safety standards of the time, it netted me a dollar. 

I once bought a patio umbrella for five dollars, spent the afternoon taking it apart to retie the cord which was broken inside the pole, and finished the day throwing it in the dumpster. It was a waste of time and money to me, but the original owners had the chance to clean out their garage and smiled all the way to their cashbox.

There were lots of garage sales last weekend as my sister and I headed to Austin. Since we had little more than twenty-four hours to visit with my grandson and his parents, we stopped for nothing on the way down. It was a lovely spring morning, and the garage sales were set out under trees, tents, and carports in every town along the way. 

I kept my focus on the road and refused to stop the car even when she twisted in her seat and pointed longingly at the hand-lettered signs attached to mailboxes and fenceposts along the road. You see my sister has a vast collection of salt and pepper shakers. She “needs” more, she says. I’m attracted to all sorts of things, but my three-year-old grandson was at the end of journey, and … it was my car.

Somewhere along the way, we both took note of a rather attractive display. On a lovely manicured lawn were table after table of “stuff” which called both of us, but we drove on. “We’ll stop on the way back tomorrow afternoon,” I promised her, but it was not to be. 

On the return trip, which should have taken less than four hours and ended up taking over six, we stopped at every junk store, antique store, and Sonic drive-in along our route. Although we bought very little, we told each other that we were waiting for that big garage sale which we remembered being on the “east side of the road.” 

Around every bend, we slowed expecting the array of treasures to be laid-out, marked down, and ready for our perusal. Nothing. Not one garage sale materialized. At one point, we saw some smoke rising in the distance and wept at the thought of a fire that had consumed her box of “grandma’s salt and pepper shakers.” I mourned that box of Hummel figurines, marked 50 cents each, which was going up in smoke. 

We made it home that afternoon a little sooner than we had anticipated, with money in our pockets and an empty trunk. Somewhere, in someone’s garage, there is a box of “stuff that didn’t sell last Saturday.” They’ll drag out the box of Hummels and the salt and pepper shakers for the final sale next weekend … and we won’t be there.