Estate sale. Yard Sale. Tag sale. Garage Sale. Curb alert.

I call my little patch of the planet Eden Acres. There is no engraved sign at the end of the driveway to make the name official. It’s just for me to reflect on during quiet moments of gratitude. Moments generally confined to periods when I’m not actually doing battle with weeds, briars, bittersweet, gnats, mosquitoes or horse flies. This morning, sitting on my back porch, the temperature perfect, a wisp of breeze, newspaper in my lap and my nose draped over a cup of fresh-brewed Death Wish coffee, it is absolutely Eden Acres.
Why on earth I would be inclined to bring a newspaper into such a serene setting defies understanding? It must be some genetic mutation that impels an aversion to serenity. Ah, but today I resist – Section A goes straight into the trash with barely a glance at the bold-faced, oversized headlines created expressly to disturb my serenity and get my dander up. Not today ya bastards. Today it’s section-B for me and my serenity. Breathe in the good – Breathe out the bad. Draping my nose again over the rim of my
coffee cup I inhale that rich, satisfying aroma of Death Wish coffee.

Alas. I am betrayed also by section-B. The lead story in boldface – Swedish Death Cleaning. My initial expectation of a bloody murder scene is soon relieved as the article turns out to be about getting old and finding ways and means to “downsize” so as not to burden our survivors with the task of disposing of our stuff. What !? Downsize! But it’s my stuff. I’ve spent a lifetime collecting my stuff. I have my stuff on shelves. I have my stuff in drawers, in cabinets, in tool boxes, in boxes in the basement, in boxes in the attic, in boxes under my bed. I have my stuff in the garage. I have my stuff in a shed in the back yard. And that’s just the little things. Don’t they say “It’s the little things that count.” I can’t be getting rid of my stuff – I might need it someday. All I have to do is remember that I have it and where I put it. (Yes. There is a lot more sand in the bottom of my hourglass than in the top.)

Besides, won’t my kids and friends be happy to get my stuff when I’m gone. Not according to this article. According to the wet blanket that wrote the article, most will only want it because it’s free and will give them an edge on their stuff collection. Most of my stuff will either be thrown away, given to charity or sold for pennies on the dollar.

Okay. That’s it. I’ve had just about enough of Debbie Downer. Let me check the inserts:
Angus Beef Tenderloin 12.99/lb. I feel my serenity slipping a little further away.
All organic smart chicken 25% off per lb. Clever.
I’ll try another insert. Hmm. Got one of those. Don’t need that. Had one of those –didn’t last the season. Deep breath. Sigh. Flip- nothing. Flip – nothing. Flip. Pause. Squint. This can’t be for real. I look again – searching for the inevitable “fine print.” I’m starting to get cautiously excited now. Just to confirm what I am seeing I call the store. The friendly and helpful Associate confirmed the ad’s authenticity.

You must learn to play the hand you’re dealt in this life and I have grown accustomed to the many disadvantages of being a member of what I believe is the most ignored and neglected minority group in the world. I have managed to improvise, adapt and overcome many obstacles. I’ve expected and received little special treatment or accommodations, yet somehow achieved a modest level of success and self-sufficiency in this life.

Finally, after all these years, someone somewhere has given specific thought to me and my kind. Something to make our lives just a little bit easier. It’s on sale – an introductory offer. Time is of the essence. Limited quantity available. Limited time offer. Limit: One per customer.

I better get there fast before they’re gone. I toss the paper in the trash, the remains of my coffee in the grass, grab my keys, hop in the truck and go tearing down the road. Anticipating a Black Friday style swarm, I brace myself to rumble. Come hell or high water, one of those limited quantity items will leave the store with me. Arriving at the store I am a bit puzzled when I find no crush of unruly customers. Maybe I’ve missed my chance. Are they already sold out? How can that be? Inside the store I am puzzled again. No shelves knocked over. No merchandise strewn across the floor. All the staff going about their business as if this was just another day like any other day. Did they pool their money to buy up the stock and sell it at huge mark-up on the black-market?

As I make my way to Aisle-7 I become increasingly convinced I’ve been duped. No. There they are – stacked four across and three deep. “Limit one per customer.” I pull one off the shelf and examine it closely. Finding no obvious flaws or damage, I make my way to the checkout counter and pay. I was expecting some sort of special congratulations or acknowledgement. Nothing. The cashier hardly bothered to look up or acknowledge my existence. Just smacked her gum and looked bored as she scanned this incredible treasure. Her attitude toward me came as no real surprise. At best my kind are met with passing curiosity kind. Indifference is the norm.

I won’t let her attitude spoil my pleasure. I am pleased with my purchase. Feeling a bit smug – superior even. I hurry home. I can hardly wait to start honing and displaying my skills on my one-per-customer, left-handed skillet. Imagining the chaos and clamor that is sure to ensue when “Estate Sale” appears at the end of Eden Acres driveway has me grinning, chuckling and self-satisfied.

We humans sure are a strange species.

For all our fuss effort and accumulation, the only things that really matter in this world are the things we do for others. All else turns to rot, rust, decay, and ends up on the scrap heap of human vanity.

See ya at the next yard sale. Until then: Breathe in the good – Breathe out the bad.

JPG