In The Garage

Each year, my parents spend a great deal of time setting up the garage to be a temporary Shopaporium – our annual garage sale. This event generally takes place in the fall to allow apples from the orchard to be sold at the same time. There are a number of regular customers who have learned to watch for the garage sale signs, and who return year after year to make their produce purchase. These people tend to peruse our garage sale selection, and – more often than not – make purchases. This is good. This is very good. The more that we can eliminate from the selection, the less there is for my mother and I to repossess.

We have a problem, the two of us. We’re well aware of it, yet each year we succumb to our weaknesses and begin a reclaiming frenzy as we unpack box after box. The problem, you see, is that we both have such lovely things. That is – of course – why we acquired these things in the first place. It’s even worse when we have to confront not only our own personal discarded treasures, but those that the other has chosen to let go of as well.

Generally, it takes a great deal of willpower (or disgust with the sheer amount of POSSESSIONS that clutter our homes) to bring us to relegate items to the “garage sale” pile in the first place. As the boxes are unpacked, and we are exposed to such delights as vintage-floral serving trays, plastic celluloid boxes, planters in the shapes of assorted animals, and much, much more, our resolve progressively weakens. And really, who could withstand such an experience?

Our unpacking of things inevitably takes an ugly turn.

Me: [Holding up a large mixing bowl] Why are you getting rid of this?

My mother: [Glancing up, one of my discarded shoes in her hand and the other on her right foot] That IS a nice bowl. [She spends some time examining it from afar.] I have too many bowls, though. [She returns her gaze to her foot, turning it this way and that to admire the fit of the shoe.]

Me: Well, I’ll take it.

I place it carefully on a nearby table. Moments later, I happen upon a box of clothing that I had purged myself of a few months earlier. I hold up a lovely purple sweater, and wonder why in the world I had decided that I didn’t need it. I OBVIOUSLY need it. Disgusted with myself for my shortsightedness, I place it next to the mixing bowl. As I do so, I notice that there are a few other things that have accrued there as well. Some of them I must have absently set aside. There is a separate pile of my mother’s hoard, one of my shoes sticking out of the side. Hmmm. This is not looking good.

By the end of the unpacking, the contents of one table tower above the rest. It is – of course – our “holding” table. We know this is wrong, yet find it so very difficult to part with any of our recent acquisitions and re-acquisitions. We stall for a while, then – grudgingly – we pull a couple of things off the table and place them out among the general merchandise. We feel very noble for doing this, and allow ourselves to celebrate by quickly moving the rest of our stash indoors so we don’t have to feel guilty when we look at it.

Unfortunately, the struggle has only just begun. For the next few weeks, one or both of us will sit in that garage for hours on end. Hours that allow us to gaze upon lovely items and consider the hundreds of possible ways in with they might be “repurposed.”

Me: [Returning to the garage after visiting the house for a break and noticing a vintage bread box wedged behind my chair.] What’s this breadbox doing here?

My mother: [Averting her eyes.] I thought it might look nice in a kitchen.

Me: WHAT kitchen?

My mother: [In a defensive tone intended to warn me to back off.] MY kitchen, of course.

Me: But you already HAVE a breadbox.

My mother: Well, YES, but I don’t have to use it for BREAD. I can use it for something else. It’s a STORAGE piece.

My mother and I have implemented key words/phrases into our vocabularies that are intended to justify the obtainment and/or retention of material items. By mutual and unspoken consent, we have agreed that these words allow the user to proceed with the desired acquisition under the guise of having a “good reason,” and that the other shall comply with the ruse. “Storage” is one of these words, as is “basic,” “organization,” and the phrase “layering piece.” If one is going to question the use of one of these special words, one had better have a VERY good reason.

Me: [Working to keep suspicion out of my voice.] Ahhh…. What – exactly – are you going to store in it?

My mother: I haven’t decided. Maybe bird food or something.

This was weak, but I had no choice but to let it go. A key word had been used.

Time would pass, and my eye would happen upon something that I had failed to notice previously. Things would heat up.

Me: [Picking framed print off shelf and casually sliding underneath table.] What are you reading?

My mother: [Clearly not fooled.] What are you doing with that print? I thought you didn’t WANT any more “stuff.”

Me: [Gazing nonchalantly at magazine opened in front of me.] Hmmmmm? What?

My mother: That PRINT you just put under the table. What are you DOING with it?

Me: [Glancing under table and appearing startled to see print.] Oh! That. I’m THINKING about that.

My mother: [Relentless.] What are you thinking about? You said you didn’t want any more STUFF.

Me: [Beginning to suspect that she is bearing a grudge over breadbox incident.] I DON’T want any more stuff. Maybe I’m going to take this print and get RID of something ELSE.

This – we both know – is a lie.

My mother: [In a tone of obvious disbelief.] Uh-huh. Right.

We are distracted by a customer. By the time she leaves, we have moved on to another topic.

My mother: [In a highly offended tone.] Can you BELIEVE that woman? She wanted to pay a QUARTER for that wall plaque. That plaque would sell in an antique store for TWENTY dollars!

Me: [In a tone of disgust that matches hers.] I KNOW. Idiot. That is SUCH a nice plaque, too.

My mother: It IS a nice plaque! I had that in a box for five years before I decided to sell it.

We both sit, staring at the plaque. We are clearly thinking the same thing – that the item should not be sold – but neither one of us wants to be the one to say it. I consider the options that we have for removing it from the sale items without it appearing that one of us is keeping it. There’s the “maybe I should give that to (insert friend or co-worker name)” ruse or the “we could make more if we sold it on ebay” ruse. Those are both options… Before we can do anything, a new customer has picked the plaque up. Without batting an eye, they pay the full asking price. We watch, a bit forlornly, as they leave.

Me: That was a nice plaque.

My mother: Yes, and they got a REALLY good deal on it.

Me: Yeah.

With a sigh, we return to our magazines. As the garage sale season progresses, items will be removed and returned to the garage sale at regular intervals as we play out our internal battles on the garage floor. Each time one of our coveted possessions is purchased, we feel a mixture of loss and relief. By the end, we have so exhausted and confused ourselves that I resolve – every year – that I want to become a minimalist. Returning home, I feel a strong desire to shed myself of material possessions. I pack boxes and boxes of things, which I store in my parent’s attic.

There they remain until the next year, when it’s time to unpack them for the garage sale.