The other Friday morning, I threw caution to the wind and asked my husband if he would like to attend an estate sale.
An estate sale, he said.
Yes, I said, an estate sale.
We do not typically roll like this, estate sale shopping, last-minute. From Monday through Friday, I am a creature of habit, but I was whipped, exhausted from a roller coaster of a week, as was he.
It was fun, chatting on the drive there, eschewing desk work and deliberately pausing to exhale.
Arriving early, we parked at the edge of the tree-lined street, and when my husband disappeared to examine the home’s backyard, I inhaled the gentle spring air and took my place in the growing line that had already formed by the front door.
A twiggy, long-legged woman in front of me scrolled her phone and swayed, her face inches from the device. After several minutes, and might I add, without warning, she decided to stretch, even though there was little margin, given we were stacked closely in line. I backed up and nearly tripped as she bent at the waist, palms flat to the ground, pliant as a rubber band, wisps of blanched hair escaping her updo.
It was while maneuvering this awkward position that her phone jingled, belting the frantic staccato notes from the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz. You know, the scene where the horrible Miss Almira Gulch furiously pedals her bicycle after snatching poor little Toto.
Miss Stretchy answered her phone while remaining inverted, and judging from her tone–cool, monotone, annoyed– it seemed she was speaking to the likes of a Miss Almira Gulch, which explained the assigned ring tone.
Meanwhile, the estate sale line, once ramrod, relaxed, given that a cluster of women had grown weary of standing and opted for a sit-down on the front stoop. One woman adjusted her heavy knee brace with a grimace and slowly patted the cane by her side. For the next ten minutes, she graced everyone with a loud, highly specific crash course involving the horrors of her knee replacement surgery.
Not to be outdone, her neighbor, also seated on the stoop, moaned that with her back acting up something fierce, she had been forced to take chances and place three pre-sale orders. What if her items were not up to par?
I studied the lady standing first in line, holding the coveted numero uno position, as she defied the sit-down and remained watchful of the front door: tense, eager, a track sprinter waiting for the gun to fire.
I felt cheerfully and deliciously invisible as these scenarios gradually unfolded: the stuff of every writer’s dream. So much material that I chided myself for neglecting to pack my small notepad.
My husband returned, and by this time the line extended to the end of the driveway. Finally, the estate sale attendant flung open the front door and offered instructions, beckoning us to roam the house. The knee replacement lady rose to action with the speed and agility of a gazelle springing across a meadow–a metamorphosis for the ages, and a sight to behold. Nothing would stop her now.
Until I crossed over the threshold, I had not considered that we were about to meander through the home of the recently deceased. This was nothing like the garage sale image I had conjured.
I am headed for the tool section, take your time, my husband said.
After thirty seconds indoors, I felt uncomfortable; blanketed by an overpowering surge of sadness. So much stuff, too many things. Costume jewelry for days, sets and sets and sets of dinner plates, chipped bowls, mountains of silverware, half-used cleaning supplies. Darkly stained carpets, warm, sour-smelling air, dusty dolls and tattered books, closets overflowing with heaps of musty clothing and shoes galore. A darkly framed print of Leonardo Da Vinci’s The Last Supper hung crookedly above a tan sofa marked sold, and on the adjacent wall dangled crude paintings of unclothed women.
I was suffocating.
As I squeezed through the crowd in an attempt to find my husband and flee, I noticed a heavy floor lamp, exquisite, seemingly out of place, and smartly priced. I do appreciate a fine lamp and asked the woman in charge to mark it as sold.
While maneuvering to the garage, I regarded men and women hunched, eyes ravenous as they thumbed through yellowed paperbacks, stained cookbooks, and kitchen drawers, stuffing plastic baggies with tarnished utensils, bracelets, clothespins, and mismatched earrings, combing through baskets of knick-knacks, a quest for gold.
I was struck: Someday, I will die and take nothing with me.
How will I choose to live today, and tomorrow, before the face of God? Will I busy myself gathering a houseful of useless trinkets, or will I spend my life storing up heavenly treasures?
These were the thoughts that swarmed and buzzed and stung, beautifully disrupting a carefree morning.
Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
Matthew 6:19-21
The Palest Ink 