I am no stranger to the wide array of sales that people put on to get rid of their no longer wanted junk. Long before I could even memorize the different denominations that dimes, nickels and quarters represented, my family held their weekly Thursday through Saturday ritual of hopping in the car and keeping a look out for neon orange signs. Garage sales, yard sales, estate sales, moving sales or rummage sales, I've been to them all (though we routinely avoided the last on the list. My dad said anyone who called it a rummage sale was bound to rack up the asking price on that ripped piece of masking-tape). My entire wardrobe consisted of ten-cent corduroy pants and slightly stained t-shirts right up until eighth grade when Mom decided that entering the worldly and critically unjust public school system required a shopping trip to Walmart or TJMaxx to buy new and 'in-style' clothes. I don't really know why we had to go to garage sales for everything. We really weren't lacking the cash. Perhaps thriftiness was a virtue we were trying to uphold, or maybe it was not letting all that good stuff no one wanted anymore just go to waste. I don't know. What I do know is that as soon as Memorial weekend came around, we filled our pockets with change from my dad's top dresser drawer and jumped in the car to see what treasures would lie on blankets strewn over green grass yards or folding tables carefully erected over oil-stained concrete. Sale season was on.
I've had a hiatus for several years from hitting any garage sales, mostly because I haven't been around when they were happening. My love for them hadn't weakened in the slightest, but all the same I had neglected embarking in the fury of going just a few more blocks in case I saw a sign at a corner, or hoping that "huge family sale" was advertising itself correctly. I had forgotten the thrill of going through a pile of jeans praying that the only pair of levis may be within two numbers of my size. Yes, The Sale and I had been estranged. That is, until the Estate Sale.
A few weeks ago I came upon an Estate sale only a few blocks from my house. Both husband and wife had died recently and their kids were seeing what last bit of cash they could get after they had already divvied up sentimental heirlooms and photographs. The house was packed full of stuff, starting out in the front yard, into the garage, through the screened-in porch, down the rails of the stairs and streaming into the basement living room. It was a drive-by shoppers dream. I went three times that day. Three times. I started out with a couple oval wooden bread bowls, came back for an antique coin purse, and after eyeing some funky retro furniture I took Steven with me the third time to see if we should buy it. We did. We made a bargain with them and I threw in the "we really do love it and it will have a great home" to ease the seller's reluctance to be talked down on symbolized childhood memories and familiarity. And with a seemingly hefty $350 out of our pockets we left the sale with a headboard, side table, record album cabinet, and a large dresser.
I don't really think of myself as "lucky", so when fortune does nod its sweet head in my direction I don't get over it easily. The furniture we bought is all Heywood Wakefield and collectively we could probably easily sell it for three or four thousand dollars.
It's not so much the worth of the pieces or even that I genuinely really like them that makes me so excited about my estate sale find. It's the fact that I saw the sign and cranked the steering wheel to the right without having put on my turn signal or pressing the brake. It's pushing past the discomfort of walking into some dead couple's house and smelling musty old jackets and unearthed Christmas ornaments to find that one treasure I've never before seen and whose value has only been guessed at. It's being able to recycle someone's tangible memory and with time turn it into my own. And it's the kinship I share with all those fellow salers who grab their cup of coffee and slip into the seats of their cars at sunrise on a Saturday morning and drive blocks looking for orange and fuschia poster board just to be the first one to walk up a driveway, spot that one item peeking out from a doily placemat, pick it up, and with effort to minimize the excitement in their voice, say "how much were you asking for this?"
I love that Evelyn has a natural affinity of music. She likes to hear it, she likes to make it and she likes to dance to it. I often play cd's in the car, look at the rear-view mirror and see her bopping her head to a song. Sometimes it sounds like she's yelling in the backseat and I realize she's just boisterously singing along. She has been drawn to it since as long as I've known her. Before Evelyn was born she heard the muffled noises of a Pixies and Wilco concert. 
I sang to her the same few songs every day while she was growing in my tummy and after she was born it was obvious that she was familiar with those songs. She'd quiet down and listen intently when I sang them to her. There have been countless times when the only thing that could soothe her was a lullaby. She's been to concerts and festivals out of the womb, too. When listening to albums she claps her hands between tracks and often says, "that was really good song" or "i wanna hear song again, mommy". Listening to music is her last request before falling asleep at night. During the day there are often too many other choices that occupy her time and busyness, but when we do sit down and listen to something I can see it in her face that it touches her soul in much the same way it does mine. I am so proud to have a little music lover.
3 Month-old Evelyn taking a milk break at Red Rocks to see Wilco.
