I swore I’d never do it again. However, recent motivations like downsizing and attempting a more minimalist approach to the homestead, not to mention a Netflix documentary – the name of which escapes me today – about where our trash goes, led me to filling a giant box with stuff that “no longer serves” us. Our neighborhood does two community yard sales a year so there’s always a chance to piggyback on that. That is, with fair warning and time to compile and tag everything.

That said, I missed the Spring edition and planned for Fall. Then I found out, with a week’s notice and a nearly full-time work schedule, that it was on for this weekend. I spent all of last Sunday and over 13,00 steps packing things up and tagging and moving things. People in this area throw yard sales on Fridays and Saturdays. Where I grew up, yard sales were always on Saturdays and Sundays. Friday has always been out for me because I have a job.

So Saturday morning arrives under a cloak of fog and clouds. I’m outside by 7:20 carrying all this shit, which doesn’t look like all that much so clearly I have not fully embraced minimalism and I’m a work in progress so leave me alone. Twenty minutes in and droplets of sweat are falling from the tips of my hair and forehead like rain and I’m feeling gross and why the fuck did I even shower this morning.

The first car rolls up and two folks step up to my shabbily stocked, and mismatched, tables. The lady peeks at my unpacked boxes and I said, feel free to dig in…. I’m getting a late start today. Which isn’t exactly true since I got up at 6 and managed to squander an hour and a half scouring reddit and drinking coffee before I made my way outside. (Oh, and that shower I shouldn’t have taken.)

Once I had everything out, I went back inside to blow dry my hair, change my shirt and bra, desperately but unsuccessfully trying to blow dry my skin before putting new clothes on. But oh, did it feel good to put on dry clothes. Parked my ass on a camping chair in the shade and drank my coffee and greeted the stragglers arriving to peruse my cast-offs.

A little detour from this riveting tale: I have fragmented memories of yard sales in childhood. My most vivid memory was of Nana’s big yard-sale-before-selling-the-house yard sale. There was a lot of stuff but the only thing I can picture in my mind was an old typewriter which may have been a hint to the writing urge. When my mom sold our home years later, we had a huge yard sale and it felt weird and awkward to have strangers rummaging through our things. They didn’t hold the same reverence for the things that filled the home I grew up in that I didn’t know I cherished for the familiarity and stability I took for granted – they were picking over these things like vultures over an animal carcass on the side of the road.

Years later I dated a man (a man, because he was ten years older than me) who loved and frequented yard sales. No fucking way I was going with him. Then I got older and married and decided to do my own yard sale. Without going back into old journals, I recall I might’ve made $60 and I did NOT enjoy it. I can confidently say that money likely ended up in someone else’s pocket.

Fast forward to today. I have participated in a few, sweating through each one of them with a determination that did not match the returns. Which is why I always say I want to do it again but I won’t. It just isn’t worth it for $60. Yesterday I broke my record and, as Todd so deftly calculated, I made about $30 an hour for my trouble. Yeah!

Somewhere along the way, though, something shifted in the way I perceive the yard sale. The majority of yard-salers here are older, retired folks. They are the early birds, too. There are old guys who come solo. There are older ladies who come both alone and in pairs. There are women my age who come with mothers, aunts, older friends. There are women of all ages who stop in for a quick look and there are others who come with kids in tow, themselves either engaged in the hunt or impossibly bored and annoyed they could not be left at home alone. The families arrive a bit later in the morning and the late-comers are a combination of everyone.

People are friendly. Everyone says good morning, hello, how are you? I had the opportunity to be social without commitment or obligation or need to be kind not because it’s my job but because I just really want to. There are no politics. Also, watching people pick over my stuff isn’t so icky or awkward anymore. I’ve learned that many folks are looking for something specific. Those are what I will call the hit-and-runs. There are others who come like it’s a hobby – the browsers – it’s what they do on Saturday mornings (probably Fridays too but I’ll never know). The thrill of the hunt.

The solo guys are the ones looking for specific things: fishing or hunting stuff, tools, vintage toys, and one old guy was looking for costume jewelry because his daughter crafts with them. I have some, but I’m saving it for my own projects (again, clearly not fully embracing minimalism). Maybe I’ll give it up next Spring.

One guy arrived with his wife – the browser – and he took one look at the representation in my driveway and said, “you’re a Ford family, huh?” He then pointed to his [Ford] pickup and said he’s got over half a million miles on it, towing boats and cars and whatevers, and there was that time he drove for like 90 miles with the hitch not secured but somehow hung on by sheer weight alone.

A neighbor down the street, who was also participating, walked up to say hello and introduce himself because we’d never formally met (I met his wife at neighborhood gathering when I first moved here) – I’ve lived here 12 years without meeting him! He’s a woodworker and we often hear the echoes of the saw when we’re outside. Todd* walked out and they met and started talking shop and the next thing I know Todd’s showing him his woodshop.

A beautiful young man wandered up from yet another neighbor’s yard sale – he probably wouldn’t appreciate the adjective so I wouldn’t tell him that but he truly was. He wanted a fishing reel I had put out for five bucks but he only had a few cents and could I go lower? This was early so I said maybe four and he said he didn’t have enough. I am just too nice and I said, I tell you what – if it’s still here at the end of the day you can have it. Okay.

The neighbor across the street I have known since he moved in a few years back, but I never met his girlfriend who moved in with him. She walked over and introduced herself and had a nice chat. Another neighbor up the street stopped by on her dog-walk and we had a nice catch up after a very long time.

Now, the town I live in is very Red. It doesn’t matter in yard sales. We’re all taking a break from the chaos to enjoy a beautiful day, and it WAS a beautiful day by anyone’s standards so long as you aren’t a 56-year-old sweaty menopausal woman lugging boxes of shit out of her garage who sat in the shade most of the time but managed to get sunburned on the back of the neck anyway. Anyhoo, I had a box of books out and among them was a copy of Peril. At one point I considered that maybe I shouldn’t put it out there and instead throw it in the Goodwill box. I swear to Bob Woodward that not five minutes later an older woman picked up that book and handed me a dollar.

That was before an older retired couple rolled up and the woman walked up with a baby carrier on her chest and a YORKIE strapped in and facing out with hind legs poking out below and front paws resting casually (and adorably) on the top of carrier like we do this every day and what are you looking at? Sweet as could be and living her best life.

The young man returned, this time with money he’d earned on items he sold to buy the reel and a special glass for his mom, he said, because he hadn’t gotten her a birthday gift yet. He would return yet again as I was packing up (an hour early because I didn’t know when it ended) and he indicated he’d like to buy the bag of Mega Bloks but didn’t have any money left. Oh no, I’m so sorry, I said. THEN he said, what was that you said about the reel earlier? Sharp-shooter, he was. He hung around a bit longer while I continued to clean up and eventually disappeared, right when I was going to give him the last item left on the table.*

The shower I took after everything was back inside (except for the books I’m taking to Goodwill this week which are now in my car) was gloriously tepid. I took my wad of cash and ordered wings and fries delivered and then we drove out to the liquor store to replenish our bourbon stock. Not a single dime of that yard sale money went toward bills. Not one.

I am pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed the interactions with people, even if it was just a friendly smile and a thank you and have a great day. I think I get it now. Yard sales have never really been about the money. If you want to make money, this aint it. It’s about purging things that no longer serve you, hoping to avoid growing the landfill. And it’s about social interaction and community. We all need that, especially now.

*Todd was willing to help but he did not want to be involved in the yard sale. He was working on the electric component of the car seats we’d driven to Pittsburgh for, in the garage with the door open, and often wandered out to engage with folks.

*I got in my car and drove down to the neighbor’s house he was selling from, told her the story, and handed her the bag to give to him.