One of last week's newspaper columns
Saturday Morning in Suburbia
by Ramon Presson
Cardboard and poster board
yard sale signs at every intersection
and subdivision entrance
from here to the Maury County line,
these are the driveways where
we the middle class
set up our flea markets
and let total strangers
rummage through our belongings--
the discarded clothes, toys,
strained furniture,
books, music, and outdated lamps,
the artwork, dishes, and kitchen appliances,
clock radios, brass decorative items,
electronics, plaid throw pillows
VHS movies, and exercise equipment
we couldn't live without and
MasterCard said we didn't have to.
Now other suburbanites, like homeless people,
are going through our trash and asking
does this work, and how much
will you take for this cutlery set
when the homemade sticker with the price
is right there on the damn thing
cause everybody wants to talk you down,
as if you should give a further discount for
something that is already on
your entire life's clearance rack
and you want to say, heck just take it, cause
you know she don't want it that bad, but
she's addicted to mediocrity like everyone else,
like the lady there in the aqua warm-up suit,
the one with board games in her arms
who said "I Do"
in the church to a guy she didn't really
have any use for, but he was a bargain and
she had a place for him
next to the curio cabinet.
I’d have to investigate it but I suspect that yard sales and garage sales are a uniquely American experience. I’m not sure how they started but I suspect that perhaps in the 1820’s somewhere out West a woman said to her husband, “This old butter churn is busted. I’m going to throw it away.” And her husband said, “No, wait! We’re in town this Saturday because the kids don’t have travel soccer. Price it at 2 bucks and we’ll put it in a garage sale. I guarantee you some nut will buy it.” “That’s a great idea!” said the prairie wife. “What’s a garage?”
My experience with garage sales is that the oddest things are the first to go. When I was a teenager I correctly predicted that a non-working lamp whose base and shade were made entirely of popsicle sticks would be one of the first items to sell. I was a confirmed prophet of profits.
Several years ago in South Carolina we did one of those combined family sales in our driveway. I told Ron that I was certain that the actual camel saddle from India (not kidding) that he placed on my card table would be a very early 1st-round pick in the Presson-Geyer junk draft. When it was bought by the first person who showed up (45 minutes early while we were still setting up) I
heard the voice of God telling me to go on a mission trip to Las Vegas.
I remember the yard sale on Rushland Drive when I was a kid. People were getting past us and pulling stuff out of our garage and saying, “How much you want for this?” Mom had to say, “Please put our washer and dryer back. And no, the kid is not for sale.” Someone made an offer on our car. I was waiting for someone to say, “I’ll give you 25 cents a piece for these 8-track tapes, and how much will you take for the house?”
I think realtors perhaps should forgo hosting Sunday Open Houses and do yard sales instead. “Jim, look at these cute dresses. Huh? Well, that style might come back. And I could fit into several of these if I ate nothing but sea kelp for the next four years. Oh my gosh, don’t you just love the color of vinyl siding they used on this house? Go see if there’s a price tag on the front door.” I’m thinking a sharp real estate agent could close the deal on the spot, especially if he threw in an authentic Indian camel saddle.
--rLp--
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