The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.”
Eleanor Roosevelt
There are many people who love to host yard sales. I am not one of them.
When I was little, my mother was a die-hard yard saler. You know, the kind who devote Saturday mornings to driving to each yard sale within 50 miles after perusing the classifieds the previous two days to know who is selling what, when, and where. She had a map of the route. She had the newspaper. She had the cash and pocket change. She had that look of “fight to the death” for that iced tea pitcher or quilt. I can only imagine what social media would have done to feed her salivating desire for more cheap stuff we didn’t need. And this was to fill our house, not turn around to resell. Oh, and she dragged us along despite our whines and complaints because Saturday should be reserved for playing in the yard. Under protest we were forced to pile into the car. At each sale we fell out, and of course, I gravitated toward the books, and lemonade stands.
I’m not a yard saler. My childhood yard sale trauma is likely to blame. And in my lifetime, I’ve hosted two yard sales that I remember. One was earlier this month. A few days before, I made sure every appliance worked, each item of jewelry was cleaned, and everything from the attic dusted so they sparkled. After a day of setting up in the garage, my face dripping with sweat in the humidity, pricing everything to sell rather than make money, I hoped the next day would prove my toil was worth it. I sat in the heat during the event our subdivision participated in, occasionally catching the cross breeze through the garage, smiled at the limited bodies that came through, and smiled when they walked away. Granted, I understand people are interested in what they want or need at the time, and I cannot control that. Despite my $1 or $2 items, they just were not into what I was selling.
The big-ticket items—the bread machine, the canner/pressure cooker, the large stew pots—were a hard sell because no one cooks anymore. The posters I created for the furniture we left indoors were ignored. And the things that did sell—my husband’s tools he planned on taking to the dump, a box of old brass knobs—were a reminder that no marketing tactic can truly predict what will sell. One woman saw my organized displays, framed pictures of Victorian women, and my “vanity” table of jewelry, shoes, and pocketbooks, and muttered: “this is too sophisticated for me,” as she walked away. There you have it.
Maybe it was too hot (90 degrees with humidity), maybe my neighbor who had leftover goods from a home goods shop she used to work in was the popular stop, maybe everyone is broke, maybe it was the lack of foot traffic. Whatever the reason(s), they just weren’t into my stuff.
As I packed up everything again, I decided hosting yard sales was not for me. And then when I counted the $100 I netted—not counting the pricing stickers and money apron I bought, and after my husband took his $80 for the rusted tools—I was pretty much in the red. At least the nonprofits in the area will benefit from the goods I delivered a few days later. Or, I suppose, I could send it all to my mother. But then, maybe it isn’t the stuff so much as it is the adventure.
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