Monday, September 13, 2010
Sunday is not the best day for a yard sale. People are slow to rise on Sunday. But, it's all we had. So when we agreed to participate in a friend's yard sale on Sunday only, expectations were light. We sold a few small items very cheaply to a few folks who ambled by unaware that they couldn't get through the day without that Christmas ornament or piece of colorful material. Mostly we found some new homes for things we haven't used in a good while.
Back in the 1980s I had about $600 invested in 35mm camera equipment for my "working journalist" days. That went to a 10 year old whose mom promised to help her learn the art of developing negatives and printing your own photos. They could afford $20. I liked the fact that a young girl would be learning that not all photos are available instantly and that photography is an art that can still be practiced.
I also found a new home for my depression era candlesticks. They weren't getting the use they deserve; I never stopped loving them, but let's just say they weren't "working" in my current living situation. A thoughtful neighborhood woman (by the way this was in a friend's neighborhood**) kept eyeing them. When she brought over an oak desk chair, the kind that swivel the trade was finalized in an instant.
A couple decided to by our friend's granite top cafe table. In the conversation that followed, we learned that they too had moved from the Bay Area to Portland the year we had. Further discussion resulted in the revelation that the male half and I share the same last name, shortened to it's current state GREENE around the same time for the same reason. We hugged. Stupid, I know, but it was so spontaneous.
Yard sales offer so much more than items for sale.
** Our friend lives in a beautiful part of SE Portland near Reed College. The neighborhood is very close. These people know and care for each other. This is an area of beautiful homes with well tended gardens. Three times, I walked down the street to my truck to put or take something and found myself, quite unconsciously, humming the theme to "Leave It to Beaver." Once, I swear I saw Fred McMurray step outside for his Sunday paper.