The Rummage Sale

Even though it was all about the things, the things were not the most important. The things were simply what connected people. They were the topic of conversation and what led to glimpses of one another’s histories and struggles, each others’ preferences and weaknesses, and each other’s innate desire for connection to one another. Just as every object has a story, so too does every person.

We set up rickety tables when the dew was still fresh, and lugged the boxes of vintage objects out of our house like little worker ants limping along to please the queen. There were old books and boxes, old tools and barware, old tables and textiles and of course, our old, aging knees suffering the sting of every armload up and down the stairs as we staged the rummage sale.

People came well before we were ready. The vehicles lined our street and elderly men unfolded their bodies as they exited their vehicles and hoisted their pants up as they closed their car doors and eyeballed our tables of baubles and whatnots.

Some people did a quick lap and left disinterested, being quick to see that none of the objects had a worthwhile story to tell them. Others spent more than an hour there, carefully picking up objects, inspecting them, and giving them thoughtful consideration.

Being a practiced extrovert, I spent hours making small talk with people as they came and went. In the handful of days that the rummage sale ran, I spoke with a plethora of people. I met a wonderful millinery who had the same affinity for bits and pieces of things that I do, all with the hopes, albeit sometimes with overly ambitious intent, of putting them to good use in some sort of creative endeavor. I met a young couple piecing together old things to use as decor in the wedding they were planning for the upcoming fall. They were getting married in the middle of a forest and it brought me so much joy to simply envision it. I met a sweet and delicate old woman who had the same appreciation for the handwork and carefully-made textiles that I did. We each imagined the hours put into the all-but-forgotten handicrafts that I had collected throughout the years with no real intention other than holding them in my hands with sheer admiration. I met a metalworker, a woodworker, and multiple seamstresses. I heard stories about gardens and stories about loved ones, and stories about plans for the future and stories about the signifance of the past.

Perhaps the best of all of the many interactions was the one that was catalyzed by a vintage glass beer mug, adorned with a pheasant and the name “BILL.” I jokingly asked a man walking by it if his name was Bill, and he hesitated and said “No, but that’s my dad’s name.” I looked where he was pointing and saw a small old man, curved over and hunched, proudly wearing a veteran’s cap. “BILL!” I exclaimed, snatching the glass mug from the shelf it sat on in solitude. “I think this belongs to you! I want you to have this!” The old man looked at me in disbelief and I watched tears begin to fill his red-rimmed eyes. “You made my week!” He said quietly. His son thanked me as he and his father shuffled off with their new treasure. Such a simple thing. Just a small gift of a thrifted glass beer mug. A mug with a story from a different Bill, now finding its way to this Bill… such a profoundly important moment. Every one of us has value. Every one of us has stories worth telling.

At the end of the weekend we had sold an amazing amount of things and amassed, for us, what was a small fortune. The real wealth for me was all of connections I made and the stories I heard, each of which added significant context to the story that I am currently living.

We slowly packed the remaining things into boxes, wondering what stories they would conjure when they found another home with someone, somewhere yet to be determined.