Yard Sale

The Yard Sale

The dazzling-bright cool, of a July Chautauqua Lake morning, was glorious.
A brilliant sun sparkled above us and was reflected in the indigo blue of the
picturesque lake. The wakes of a dozen small, motor-craft crossed each other
in a pattern of churning white water. The many deciduous trees along the
shoreline were in full bloom. Their leafy canopies provided intermittent shade
for us as we cruised the lakeshore road, looking for that momentary point of
interest flagged for us by a sign that said "yard sale. It is an eye-catching
destination marker for treasure hunters and seekers of the extraordinary. Each of whom is on a mission to bring home something useful, something odd or something ripe for resale.

Up ahead on the right, we espied a small, telltale gathering of cars
and trucks parked along the roadside. The lure of the gold miner pulled us
into the line of parked cars and we exited the vehicle with the anticipation
of Stanley marching through Africa. The yard of the small farmhouse was
littered with a whole array of furniture, implements and personal belongings.
One might have thought that the house was just flooded and the residents were airing out their possessions. Several other treasure hunters were already
picking through the aging possessions in pursuit of that find that would make
them smile once again, with a muttered "Eureka!

A large blanket held bits and pieces of small engines and hand tools.
Most were coated with a fine, red rust indicating a lack of recent use. Two
used and aging shot guns sat on a table nearby. They were priced at $150 and must have some value to the owners. Who knew how many deer, squirrel and rabbit they had provided for the family's tables over the years? Or maybe they had been used by an ancient relative to guard a mountain liquor still, or to run off varmints who were up to no good.

Nearby, a large stack of old record albums lay piled on a small table.
And lest a body demure that he had no player, two 1950's style turntables
were also for sale to spin them on. A lesser stack of vinyl, 45-rpm records
also rounded out the collection. There were even some old eight- tracks
available in a box. Someone from the 1960's would have been right at home here.

A rusted out and sorry-looking bicycle stood against an towering
chestnut tree. It would never ride again, but might serve as an ornament in
some display or another. The life and times of several generations of this
family lay here on display here. Several of the farm pieces were old but
serviceable. The tree chipper looked both newer and completely functional. It
reminded me, in a mental slip flash, of the scene from "Fargo where a
pregnant, police chief had captured a miscreant who was busily feeding his
former partner into a similar style wood chipper. Who knows what this one had ground up during its tenure with the family? Metal objects may be mute, but each has a story to tell.

We mused and commented on the memories that the items on display
resurrected, as we browsed through the piles of, uh "previously used items,
pondering at both their provenance and the reasons they had been acquired by this family. We are what we buy, one wag had posited. Fred Sanford, a modern-day adventurer, had shown us the way.

The middle-aged owners sat in lopsided lawn chairs, overseers of this
family sell off, and chatted amiably with the browsers and buyers alike.
Sometimes, they made a deal, sometimes, they just smiled and said "no thanks. This wasn't an Arabian souk, but the same rules of bargaining apply
here. "Never offer the asking price and "never take the offered price is the
operable dictum in the friendly give and take ritual of bargaining that both
sides much enjoy.

We ferreted out a few eight- tracks, of the group ABBA and other
sounds from yesterday. We offered the princely sum of two dollars for them.
Such is the price of the old and not yet antique. Then, we walked slowly to
the car, talking of the many items we had seen on display. Some people go to
museums, some go to yard sales. It is all, as the Chinese say, "same same.

I found the experience interesting, in this brief visit, but would
much prefer visiting a proctologist to prepare for hemorrhoid surgery than to
do this on a regular basis. Sometimes, junk really just is junk and should be
left to rust in peace.

Joseph Xavier Martin