The wind was the kind of cold that makes your legs seize up mid step. There you are, walking, barely. Out of nowhere, the gust seems to touch your bones. You want to squat down and hug your knees. Let the cold have your back. But, the structure is just up ahead, so you walk on, saying curse words under your breath and wondering what made you think you could do this. You aren’t alone. There are others suffering your fate: cold, defenseless, without hope. You all gather at the structure, strangers called to a common pilgrimage, searching each other’s faces for answers that won’t come. You aren’t gathering at the base of Mt. Everest. You aren’t waiting for the gun at the Iditarod starting line. You aren’t victims of an avalanche. You’re just a group of people, in January, waiting outside a random old house for an estate sale to open at 9 am.
I get calls and texts regularly. I should know better than to share projects on social media. “I saw that you _________. I have a _________. Can you _______ mine?” It’s like mad libs for artists. Options for the blanks could include built a massive chalkboard, made cookies that look like bouquets, painted a mural, refinished old doors into a headboard, poured candles made from old candle remnants, painted a parking lot space. Other people have blank walls, burned out candles, cookie hunger, driveways, and beds without headboards. It isn’t that I don’t want to do things for other people. I love making things. I just don’t handle criticism well. My feelings are not worn on my sleeves. They extend from my very pores like cat whiskers. Criticism hurts like a month-long stubbed toe. Also, I have issues with imposter syndrome. Plus, I don’t think most people understand how imperfect my creations are to the trained eye. There was that one time a lady yelled at me because the cookie icing was supposed to be pastel coral and I clearly used peach icing. That settled that. Never again. But there are other phone calls, too, like the ones I received this week. Seems there was an estate sale in town - not a garage sale calling itself an estate sale to garner more traffic, but an actual sale inside of a home born of the recent passing of a centenarian. And, I am a fan of this liquidation company. I follow them like a 70s ingenue followed the Rolling Stones. That is how I found myself, on a near freezing morning, 20 people deep in an outside line, waiting for the backdoor of a very old home to open. While others were running hither and yon, trying to look in windows and speaking of their cold misery in loud voices, I was conserving my energy and using diaphragmatic breathing techniques and visual imaging to convince myself I was toasty warm, perhaps on a beach somewhere, complete with tan toes and a Mai Tai. Mainly, I was planning, contemplating, listening. Estate sales are war. I am Sun Tzu.
It is crucial to pay attention to your enemies. The others in line may look innocent enough, but you must study them, listen to their words. The woman in the front of the line was no threat. I could tell that her husband was very sorry he’d agreed to accompany her. He offered her breakfast at Waffle House twice, hoping she’d abandon her position. She was looking for crockery. Harmless, I decided. The group of 4 women were on a friend’s day adventure. They also posed zero threat, mainly because they all came together in a small SUV with no room for many purchases. They seemed way more concerned with where they were having lunch and who wanted mimosas. Several of my counterpar ts branched off into a subgroup and gravitated toward the outbuildings to form their own line. Excellent. I was not interested in old tools and older Christmas decorations. But, the one uncertainty, the young enough to be a child of mine gentleman two people ahead of me in line, was my greatest rival. Based on what my eagle eyes could spot on his phone screen and his call I “accidentally” overheard, he was a dealer with an eBay profile and an Etsy store. He looked athletic. I wasn’t sure I could get a good jump on him. My only hope was my shorter stature. I can get to the stuff on the floor faster than he can, I thought. I began to stretch out my hamstrings ever so slightly. That’s when, at precisely 8:59 am, the back door opened and a female voice said, “Cash only, just so you know. Y’all come on in.”
I became overwhelmed. “Stay in the moment,” I said to my own mind. Don’t touch the China. Don’t look at the crockery. Do not go near that mid cent mod sofa. The young dude was suddenly gone. Darn it! I’d let him out of my line of vision. He could be anywhere. I rounded the first corner. There it was! The late 1800s portrait of a young boy I’d seen on the sale Facebook page was right in front of me. Gingerly, I removed the original plaster frame from the wall. Right next to it was the next item I’d hoped I could purchase. It was an early 1920s American Character Doll – the Petite Bottletot Baby Doll, with both hands and feet intact. I turned to the woman next to me. “My hands are shaking.” She seemed unimpressed. I gingerly cradled the doll and headed toward the bedroom, where I was hoping to snag a 30s era olive tweed waistcoat with a mink collar. He passed me in the hallway, this modernday stagecoach robber I’d lost track of upon entry. As if he could read my mind, he stared me down as he spoke directly to me. “Got the coat,” he spat. “Got the doll AND the picture,” I snarked back. There we stood, like a couple of gunslingers looking for a fight. I broke first. “Nice find,” I chirped, forcing myself to smile. The coat was clearly a few sizes too big for me. Winner winner chicken dinner.
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