Garage Sales, January 2012

This past winter may be viewed as an ominous sign of accelerated climate change, or a count your blessings/anomaly/glitch/hiccup in the grand fabric of time, or a well-deserved theological payback/apology for the winter of 2010-2011.  Whoever gets the credit, and I am sure both political parties (and jingoistic city councils all over the region) will put in for it, Minnesota was spared!  It was an unseasonably mild winter, and a ridiculously early spring.  We may pay for this “winter that wasn’t” with a lowered water table, a higher likelihood of drought conditions and possible famine.  On the bright side garage sales are off to the earliest start since the legendary magic Summer of ‘91.

The first blender (a Sunbeam 1180 with a cracked beaker and missing lid) was sold by Hazel T. of Lowry Hill on March 3rd.  The same day, Chris R. on Colfax found a complete Ikea bookcase and desk set.  Decades-old records for quantity and quality of March sales were shattered.  There were 83 Craigslist entries for the second weekend alone.  Experts -- all right, it was Weasel, the creepy guy in the old van with the fedora and the toothpick -- warned that this fevered pace would diminish inventory for the fall community rummage sales.  What he said rather gleefully through tobacco-stained teeth was ,“Them churches is gonna be @#%*^ !”  Still the stuff is flying around.  Roasting pans, John Grisham hardbacks, a Velvet Underground album, pepper mills, turkey basters, Ann Taylor skirts, kids toys, Pottery Barn dishes, Pirelli snow tires, and a mostly complete set of metric socket wrenches. 

Admittedly I am not in direct contact with Weasel, but I do have my sources on the ground and they assure me that the neighborhood is jumping.  As I remain in exile in Southern California, the land of year-round sales, I admit that I miss the seasonal frenzy of “opening day” and a climate-limited short season.  Here some sales appear to be an afterthought.  Late Friday night it seems like a few couples are having a drink and one of them says, “Hey, let’s get rid of some of our old #@%$ tomorrow.” The next day, not too early, they throw boxes of old plastic toys, piles of size 2 clothing, dead VCRs and tapes, margarine tubs, and assorted Harley motorcycle parts on the driveway in front of the carport.  Nothing is priced.  The sale probably doesn’t generate enough to pay for the Starbucks run.  Around 11:00 AM they all decide to go to the beach.

This is so different from the Minnesota Lutheran Women’s Club which meticulously cleans and presses each item of clothing and carefully pins a color coded price tag on every children’s T-shirt even though they are all 25 cents.  I still go to sales here despite the paucity of goods compared to the Twin Cities.  I get in less trouble.  It’s like an all you can eat beet restaurant. 

I still enjoy the odd and unique:  a WIN (Whip Inflation Now) button, Collier’s magazines, and other less practical stuff.  Since I avoid stores whenever possible, finding a dog bed, a giant ice cream bowl, a goose neck lamp that really works, and a lounge chair I didn’t know I needed is very gratifying.

Since there are few sales, I often bring Hannah, the nearly perfect border collie, and we adventure together.  Our favorite is a greener pastures sale.  People moving on, not because of a death or divorce, but an opportunity.  The kids want to pet the dog, which delights Hannah.  The adults are filled with descriptions of Fish Tail Creek or whatever smogless, low density dogs-run-free paradise they are moving to.  I occasionally pick up some CDs (the birds in the trees is all the music the sellers will need), but it is a joy to hear about their plans.

When the sale holder asks too inquisitively what I am looking for, I may say, “A left rear axle for a 1956 Hudson Hornet.” They usually sputter and back off.  More often people are genial and I will answer truthfully that I don’t believe I need anything, but I am ready to be surprised. 

The real question is why garage sales still have a hold on me.  Without sounding too much like Mr. Rogers, I am very curious about the people in my neighborhood.   I like having the excuse to not only enter a yard, but be welcomed and urged to poke around.  I will often make an innocuous, generally humorous remark and see if the proprietor is willing to play while I rummage.  If they catch my irreverence, witty banter may ensue!  It is like a mini-holiday when people routinely exchange greetings.  Do their discarded books and clothing match my sense of them?  Do we seem to have common values and world view?  Do I have a new best friend?  They may remember Hannah if she is along, but likely we will be barely nodding strangers again within a week.

      I am not looking for a friend or my childhood sled in Los Angeles.  Perhaps I am comforted that in 1972 paperbacks were 25 to 50 cents, just as they are today.  Betamax, bell bottoms, turntables, everything gets one last reprieve before the landfill.  Many people view quarters, dimes and nickels as nearly valueless clutter.  Every Saturday I use my collected change to rescue a few items.  Later in the day when I am supposed to have left the silliness of sales behind I am Homer of the Odyssey (not of the Simpsons) dispatched to Trader Joe’s.  Brave Odysseus confronted by the siren song of the harpies, iridescent signs promising HH misc!!!  I am powerless to resist.

Tom H. Cook is a fixture on the local LA night scene.  Tweet him for club connections or follow him on twitter at his unlisted Skype code.  Peace out.