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Garage Saling

By Debbie Farmer

Warm weather is the time for baseball, barbecues and swimming. But, in my neighborhood, it's also time to spend Saturday mornings behind an aluminum table, in the place usually reserved for the car or a dog, selling items that you wouldn't wish on communist third world countries. I decided to have a garage sale the day I opened my closet and was nearly killed by an avalanche of five-year-old maternity clothes and a Cabbage Patch doll.

I spent a week cleaning out multitudes of baby paraphernalia, and instructed my husband to sort through his dowry of rusty treasures stored in the garage since our wedding.

I organized the contents of my household into three piles: used (baby accessories, birthing books and support hose); never-been-used (electric breast pump, Thigh Master and cookbooks with recipes that require more than five ingredients); and will-never-be-used-again (size seven jeans, sewing machine and anything my husband repaired).

My husband's pile consisted of an electric exit sign he found three years ago in a dumpster and a pair of crutches. I knew then it would be up to me to sell our castoffs and increase the storage space in our home.

I woke up early on Saturday morning and arranged my belongings on the driveway. Then I sat in a beach chair, and waited, thinking this was the best idea I ever had because soon my closets would be uncluttered and I wouldn't be risking my life every time I needed a sweater. I closed my eyes and dreamed about the extra storage space -- and cash -- in my future.

"Excuse me." My reverie was broken by a woman waving my son's first rattle. "How much is this?"