The Art of “Yard Sale-ing”
One Man's Trash is Another Man's Treasure
BY SUSAN HAAS-BATES, ILLUSTRATION BY GENE SUCHMA
I’ve lived in my neighborhood for six years. Every summer, we hold a community yard sale. And each year, I’ve missed it. As a result, our two-car garage could not so much as accommodate even a bicycle, and had become a bottomless pit.
My husband, who is a neat nick by nature, refused to go in there because, as he said, “It aggravates me too much, and if I start pitching things, no one is going to be happy.”
I was able to navigate a path to the freezer, so that we wouldn’t starve over the winter, while our children continued to use it as a warehouse to store every memento from grade school through high school, which included gum wrappers and love notes – this was BT (before texting).
So, I decided a yard sale was going to save all. It would de-clutter our garage, and we’d earn a little money in the process. I even Googled articles on how to have a profitable yard sale.
The night before the big event, I was set. I had the lemonade and brownies made for our 7-year-old to sell; I had $40 in change; I had music to play in the background; and I had everything neatly stacked, tagged and easy to read.
And then I got a phone call from our lawn maintenance man. “I won’t be coming until after the yard sale. Just wanted you to know,” he said with a slight edge of terror in his voice.
I brushed it off. Then my father, who lives in the same neighborhood, called my husband and invited him to play golf.
“He said that he doesn’t do yard sales, and I don’t want to either,” explained my husband. “So, we have a 6:30 a.m. tee time.”
“Why so early?” I asked.
“He just said be ready, that’s all I know.”
I just figured it must be in the same category as shopping, so they decided to skip town. Undeterred, I went to bed feeling prepared and peaceful.
What I didn’t know was that the first rule of “yard sale-ing” is the early bird gets the bargain. And I do mean early.
“Honey, there are people parked in front of our driveway,” chirped my husband at 6 a.m. “I need to get out to go meet your dad.”
“What?! I thought it started at eight! I don’t have anything out!” I exclaimed as I flew out of bed, threw on a pair of sweats, put my hair in a ponytail and slid a toothbrush over my teeth.
I dashed downstairs and clicked the garage door opener. People swarmed my driveway the same way they flock to stores on Black Friday. I started putting up tables and tossing boxes. Someone grabbed my husband’s Pings he had put on the step while he went in for his wallet, asked if they were for sale and if we would consider $20 for them. Clothes flew everywhere. I couldn’t find my money envelope and ended up giving someone an entire box of baby clothes for $5 because I couldn’t make change. Lack of caffeine clouded my vision of reality as I sold a bike for $3. My kids were hiding in the corner, until one of them saw someone pick up their Rugrats figurine collection.
“Mom! Why are you selling that! I want that!”
Now keep in mind, my daughter is 20 and my son is 17.
Then my 7-year-old chimed in, “Mommy, where is he taking my Dancing Elmo?”
“Honey, we have that in the garage because you said it scares you at night.”
“I know but it’s mine!” he exclaimed and proceeded to run and grab the toy from its new owner, which started a wrestling match in the driveway.
“Hey, tell your kid to knock it off,” yelled someone, as another person approached me and asked me if I would take a quarter for two pair of cargo shorts that had retailed for $29 a piece at American Eagle Outfitters.
My husband ended up walking to meet my father at my parents’ home because we couldn’t find the owner of the car that was blocking the driveway.
The chaos continued for the next several hours while I attempted to bargain, delegate and navigate. By 11 a.m., I was exhausted. I listened to the chattering as people picked over the “merchandise,” unfolding, unwrapping and trying things on over their clothes. I now understand how frustrated the salesclerks must have been when my grandmother would open all the bags of prepackaged socks in Wal-Mart to make sure they fit. (I always knew she had been there when I’d see silver duct tape covering most of the sock section.)
By 1 p.m., the crowd had gone. I took everything that hadn’t sold out to the curb. I saw a caravan of cars going around and picking through all the things people had left out for the garbage 15 minutes later. Two hours later, I looked out my window and everything was gone except for a few unmatched socks and an old polyester suit my husband had been saving for “that ‘70s party that never seems to happen.” It gave the term, “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” an entirely new meaning.
I began to understand that “yard sale-ing” is a noun and also why some people avoid them like the plague. The jury is still out on whether or not I will ever hold or attend one again. My husband arrived home an hour later, golf clubs slung over one shoulder and holding “that suit” in the other.
“Honey, why did you put this out for the trash? You weren’t going to sell it were you?” HBG
