Sale On, Sailor

For starters, my apologies to the Beach Boys for stealing their song title and then purposely misspelling it! But this post isn't about sailing or sailboats; it's about sales. More specifically, it's about estate sales and their step-children (garage, yard, patio and moving sales).

I got to thinking about this topic after stopping by Barefoot Manor. My hostess was discussing the mixed feelings engendered -- particularly in THIS economy -- about shopping at local garage sales.

When I go to these garage sales and hear the families talk of not knowing where they will end up, or see that they are selling beloved items that they would rather keep, it breaks my heart. A part of me feels it's wrong to even think about buying the items that they love, and a part of me wants to buy something - anything - in an effort to help them out, if only in a small way.

I can really relate to having such mixed feelings. While I relish the opportunity to provide a good home to items being tossed away, I also privately lament the kind of situations that cause families to need to sell family heirlooms and everyday items.

As I'm a person with Asperger's who doesn't readily attach to people, I compensate by becoming very attached to objects. I have a favorite fork, believe it or not. If something happened to my fork, I'd be distraught. There are loads of special items around my house -- most of which are not antiques nor worth hardly any money at all. Of course, I do have a few special items that have been passed down through the family and, probably, could fetch a bit of money (not that they are going to).

When my maternal grandfather died about 20 years ago, I was given a wonderful present -- I got to live in my grandparent's home over the spring and summer preparing it for one final estate sale. Unbeknownst to other members of the family, this several month period was so important to me because I needed time to say good-bye to all the trappings of what I had come to know as Grandma and Grandpa's house.

While I had the responsibility of keeping up the grounds (about 2 acres), clearing debris off the roof, repainting the house and other assorted tasks, there were several days in which I simply sat in the house crying because I knew that one day soon all that was normal and routine for me would change. All the surroundings I had come to know intimately over the course of 30+ years would, in next to no time at all, be gone forever.

Nights were the worst. During the day I had plenty of jobs to keep me busy, but at night I would walk from room-to-room. I'd pick up an item -- like my grandma's hair brush -- hold it in my hand, rubbing my fingers over the contours of its shape.

The room I spent the most time in was the smallish kitchen. I'd open up the cabinets and just stare at all the neatly aligned items: the fiestaware bowls, the "duck" glasses, the bean crocks, and the mix-and-match silverware.

But the day of the big estate sale finally came. My Uncle Gene (now the patriarch of the Sparling clan) was in charge. I helped people carry stuff to their vehicles, but I wasn't much help other than that. Each time the cash register rang up a new sale, my heart sank. By the end of the day, I was nothing more than one big teardrop. That night, I hardly got any sleep at all as I just cried and cried and cried.

The only solace I took from that day is that I was afforded the opportunity to claim more than my fair share of my grandparent's belongings. My family knew how close I had been with my grandparent's trappings and, to his credit, Uncle Gene went out of his way to let me keep many of my most cherished objects. I still have almost every one of them here in South Bend.

These days, when I go to an estate sale, the same emotions wash over me. I've been known to have to leave the house where the sale is taking place because I get too emotional. There have been times in which I'll be holding a glass or a hammer or whatever else and I'll just burst into tears.

It's not like I know the family holding the sale. And it's certainly not because I have a personal attachment to any of their stuff. It simply comes crashing down on me that someone in their family most likely is suffering the same kind of heartache I experienced at my grandparent's estate sale.

It makes me so sad.