Search and Rescue

Yesterday, we went to an estate sale. I haven't decided whether I like doing this or not. I used to think of these things--like yard sales--as golden opportunities to get neat stuff at bargain prices. And they are. However, those bargains have another cost attached to them.

I can't help thinking about the people who owned these things. Maybe it's the reminder that, inevitably, I'll grow old(er) and someday, it might be MY stuff that the hordes are pawing through, and dismissing as junk. Maybe it will be my treasures that are being sold for pennies on the dollar. Whatever the cause, I find myself walking through other people's houses feeling sad, paying attention to the boxes of glassware, the closets full of sad sweaters, the linen closets packed with yellowed tablecloths and napkins. The dust and dirt in the corners, the neglected flower beds, the threadbare carpet continue the story of decline. How does one come to this state? Where are the children who should have found a cleaning lady, a yard man, a handyman to fix the sagging cabinets and wobbly bookcases? Are they the orchestrators--and beneficiaries--of the sale?

I hope not. It would be unfair that neglectful heirs would gain from this harsh and cold disposition of belongings. But then, here we are, pecking away like vultures at this carcass of a life: the books, the records, the old unidentified photos of mystery relatives, the unused gifts squirreled away in their original boxes...even the ornaments and trappings of Christmases past.

I know it's not reasonable, but I always feel that I should rescue something from these sales: some thing that might have had personal meaning, and might again. I've saved chairs at one house, china at another, a crocheted tablecloth, a footstool...hoping to capture and reignite some spark of identity, some remnant of happy times that lingers within. If nothing else, when I look at these pieces, I remember a house, a location, a circumstance. They become stories to be told to friends and family, and, as such, they live again.

Yesterday I bought a set of Shakespeare plays: miniature leather-bound books, 24 tiny books with gold-stamped covers--each one the size of my palm--arrayed in a battered wooden box, furred with mold. Five dollars well-spent for someone's priceless memories.