When You See Me Walk By

I'm sort of a pack rat, I guess. I've mentioned before that I like to go to the flea market and go to yard sales where I pick up all sorts of crap. One thing that I will normally not purchase used are clothes. I'm not sure why, maybe it stems from childhood when mom was a frequent visitor to neighborhood yard sales where she tried to find clothing for her ever growing kids at a cheap price. I'm not proud or anything (maybe, a little) but the thought of wearing the neighbors' used clothing really gives me the Eeewwwwwws. None of my neighbors on Cherry Fork Road had the cooties or anything but I'm sure Missy really didn't want to see me walking around in one of her 'Alexander' shirts. All of this brings me to present day. During a recent surge of physical activity (not sure where it came from) I decided to root around through some old boxes and see if I couldn't get rid of a few things. The first box that I opened contained a varied assortment of green and yellow colored shirts in different sizes with different monikers on the front and back. What I had found was the box that contained all of my old t-shirts and jerseys from when I was a child. As I looked through the box and read the names on the backs of the shirts I was transported back to my childhood. At one point in time I had been called the following names: G.G., 1st grade; Strawberry, 5th grade basketball; G-whiz, Tom Downing called me that; MyMy, junior high; Mia, still called that; G, still called that; Palmer, never liked being called by my last name and lastly, Gianetta. I had shirts monogrammed with all of these names. It's been 35 years, do I really need to keep these mementos? After a few moments of thought and reflection, I decided it was time to let the old shirts go; they were in good shape so I thought I would donate them to the local thrift store. A few weeks later I had stopped at the park by my house to go for a walk when I noticed a group of small children playing on the jungle gym wearing a familiar looking color. When I approached closer, I was surprised to see four little kids wearing four of the t-shirts that I had donated. I struck up a conversation with the mom and discovered she was just overjoyed to have found these shirts. She home-schooled her kids, ages 8-11, and when they went to the park she liked to dress them in similar colors. Everyone seemed to be having a good time except one little boy who was upset and kept trying to read the back of his shirt. Intrigued by his actions, I approached him with this question, "What's wrong? Don't you like your new shirt?" "It's okay, I guess. Except my name isn't Palmer, it's Alexander!"

Good Riddance, At Last

In 2005, I bought a lemon. It wasn't a car, but a riding lawn mower. It lasted only one season before the problems began. I chronicled the frustrations in past blog posts and my attempts to get it fixed. Brother was able to fix it one year and Friend another time. This past spring I was able to back it out of the basement about 20 feet before it stopped again. It was same problem: the transmission wouldn't engage and the back tires would not turn. To get it to move required a chain or rope hooked up to my car, which I did one last time to move it out of the way. That's where it stood all summer, almost completely engulfed in weeds, sticking out like a big pimple on a prom queen's nose. I had enquired about getting it fixed but the mechanic and his crony just laughed at me and said they wasn't fooling with anything that wouldn't roll and would give me about 30 bucks for it to use as parts. I had called the recycle place and from best estimates I was looking to get between 30-40 dollars based on the metal weight. But, they didn't do pickups and I would have to have it hauled there and who knows how much that would have cost. All of this brings me to the last few days. Instead of selling junk at the flea market, I sold junk out on the front lawn. It was my only yardsale this year. Most people that stop drive on down the hill and turn around behind the house and drive back up. Almost every man in a pickup stopped and wanted to look at the piece of junk mower I had sitting out back. Does it run? Will it crank? How old is it? How much you want for it? Those were the questions that I was being asked. When I volunteered the information that the tires wouldn't roll, most of them just shook there heads and left. The same mechanic and his crony stopped, gave it a quick once over and said he'd be back later, he didn't have any money. Another fellow and I tried to jump it off with cables but couldn't get it to turn over and we couldn't agree on a price. The last man was with his wife and he just wanted to hear the engine turn over, he was just interested in the engine and would be back later. On Sunday, the man, without his wife, showed up in his work clothes and spent close to an hour tinkering with the mower. He finally got it to start and then decided he didn't want it after all. (I think he was enjoying working on it and telling me stories more than anything.) I was just sitting down to supper when the jumper cable guy showed up again. I told him that we had gotten it started and I would sell it to him for his price, which was 50 bucks. Well, then he didn't know if he could get it loaded on his truck. And then he didn't know if he could find a part for it. (He was working me, I know.) He then asked if I would take 30 dollars, I countered with 40 bucks, and we settled on $35.00. I paid almost a thousand dollars for something that didn't give me any real enjoyment, caused me endless headaches and left a dead spot in my back yard after sitting there all summer. I say good riddance...at last.

****I wrote this last year when I was having a yardsale. I'm having another sale this year and everything is still pretty much the same. Enjoy!**** So, I was crazy enough to have another yard sale before winter set in, by myself. I asked mom if she wanted to come help but she thought I was nuts for trying to have a sale this late in the year and she wasn't participating. (I guess it didn't matter that I was selling some of her stuff) Anyhow, midway between my umpteenth visit to the basement, attic, and storage building, my back gave out. I backed into the metal part on my utility trailer and gave myself a six inch long bruise and then I sprained my ankle when I doubled over in pain from bumping the trailer. Needless to say, it was after 10:30 AM this morning before I had put my signs up by the road, and by yard sale standards, that was extremely late if I hoped to make any money. Since I live at the bottom of a hill I get a lot of folks that slow down and then realize that I am at the bottom of a hill and keep on going. Fine! If you're too lazy to get out and look then you probably want to complain about the prices of everything and want me to sell you a twenty-five dollar item for twenty-five cents. Keep going, I don't want your business anyway. The first guy that pulled up wanted to by my utility trailer. The second guy that pulled up wanted to buy my utility trailer. The third guy that pulled up wanted to buy my utility trailer. The fourth guy that pulled up wanted to know if I had any mowers I wanted to get rid of. Now, that's a loaded question. I've discussed before about my piece of crap mower and what you don't know is that the danged thing broke down again earlier this year. I took the guy to the basement and showed him the mower and he started asking if my tools, my fishing poles, and my Christmas decorations were for sale. He made me a tad nervous so I hightailed it back up front. Weirdo. Later, someone wanted to buy my leaf rake. Another wanted to by a bistro table (which I don't have) and someone else wanted to buy a microwave. Mom called early afternoon and asked how things were going. I was bellyaching about my bruised butt (which was the part that ran into the trailer), my ankle that I had wrapped in an ace bandage that was horribly swollen and how everyone wanted to buy everything, especially my trailer, that wasn't for sale. Mom's response: "I didn't know you was selling your trailer. How much you want for it?"

Snooze, You Lose

I had spent a few hours selling junk at the flea market and decided I would take the long way home and stop and see what mom was doing. It was before noon on Friday which still left a few hours to visit local yard sales, which is a favorite pastime of ours. I had noticed several sales coming over the mountain and that's the way we headed. The first place we stopped wasn't really a yard sale, it was more of a permanent-type set up that is always selling junk. It's not normally where you can find a good deal. We had wanted to check out a few other locations in that area but my sugar started to drop and we went to lunch instead. (Mom and I never miss an opportunity to eat out!) Mom usually adopts the requirements of the diet that I am on at any given time. The flavor of the month this time is the Adkin's Diet or low carbohydrate diet. Of course, when I have hypoglycemia, I have to have carbohydrates, or sugar, quickly to raise my blood glucose level or I can have a seizure. (Check out Julia Robert's having a seizure in Steel Magnolias and you'll see for yourself; it ain't pretty.) Mom decided she wanted the half chef salad with blue cheese dressing on the side. They didn't have blue cheese, so she ordered french. I'm not sure if the waitress was hard of hearing or not but she thought mom said ranch and they kept getting louder and louder as the server would say RANCH and mom would say NO! FRENCH! After several exchanges it was determined that they didn't have french, and mom ended up with ranch after all. After lunch we headed over to the other side of town and were headed back towards Mom's house on a back road. We do like to explore and ended up following signs advertising a yard sale well off the beaten path. In fact, it was way past being out in the boonies and we thought we were heading to Timbuktu or it's neighbor, East Fumble Buck. We pulled up to a house that had it's entire yard filled with junk; our kind of place. The lady having the sale was talking to some fella about medical problems or something but nodded in our direction. I had seen that guy before at sales around town; he'll talk your ear off. The lady had a very large table piled with paperback books and a sign said they were a quarter each. Now, that's a really good price and I was thinking about making the lady an offer to buy the entire table. "How much for the whole table?" I asked. The lady walked away from Mr. Talkative and over to the table. Now, I had a price in my head and if she was anywhere close to it, I was going to get the whole shebang. "Oh, 'bout ten dollars," she said. Before I even had time to process that amount Mom walks over and says, "Sold!" The lady and I looked at each other; we didn't know mom wanted in on the deal. I started to say something to mom when she shushed me and said, "Snooze, you lose, go get the car, those books are mine!" What's a daughter to do? I wanted the books. You're right, I went and got the car...

Sharing A Tailgate...Part I

Since spring is finally here, and with it, the advent of warmer temperatures and the unofficial beginning of yard sale season, it was no surprise that I decided to celebrate the Fred Sanford in me by participating in my first flea market of the year. I have junk, I love junk and I like to sell junk. Normally, I like to have a yard sale at my house, but during one of my recent undercover assignments I discovered a flea market, where, for a small table fee you can bring your own stuff to sell. I immediately liked the idea of this--no hauling and setting up of the tables from the basement to the front yard which can really be quite a task for one person. I also didn't have to worry about the amount of junk I wanted to sell--whatever fit in the Mustang was what was going to the flea market with me. I had done everything the night before except pack a lunch to take with me. I did that early the next morning and I was out the door by 7:30 AM. Now, depending on where you are from, 7:30 AM can be early, right on time, or why bother going. I almost fit into the why bother going category because when I pulled into the parking lot 45 minutes later the place was packed. I was beginning to panic because I had driven almost around the dealer area and there wasn't a table to be had. I found a spot in the very back row between a guy that makes signs and license plates for folks (Jim Bob loves Sue Ellen) and a group of people that had about 5 or 6 tables filled with everything but the kitchen sink. (They did have a blue bathroom sink that they were trying to sell.) I spent a half hour frantically setting up my table, moving things here and there, doing my best to get everything set up just right. It was close to 9:00 before I started to calm down and sent Mom a text telling her that I had almost blown it by hitting the snooze button one too many times. Not long after, I made my first sale of the day (a box of books for 5 bucks) and started to notice the dealers around me. It wasn't hard to notice the guy selling license plates because his equipment was hooked up to a generator that ran the entire time he was there. (HUH?) (WHADDYA SAY?)(NO, I DON'T NEED A LICENSE PLATE now, maybe later.) (The generator ran out of gas as I was making that last statement.) The group on the right of me consisted of 3 women and a Hispanic male and took turns conversing in English and Spanish. It turned out that they were grandmother, mother, daughter and son-in-law and they had been flea marketing for years. I inquired to the mother if she was a writer because she kept writing on these note cards. "No, I'm not, but my son-in-law is. I see you didn't bring a chair with you, you're welcome to sit on my tailgate with me..."

Cleo, Mister and Sissy...Part III

"...Hey, Sissy! Don't you think you better slow down." Cleo turned to me and said, "Sissy, has a real problem. That TV channel called and wanted to put her on the air. What's it called, Boarders, or Hoarders, something liked that. We told them 'bout all the stuff she has, but they said we'd be better off calling Goodwill or the Salvation Army. They have a lot of extra manpower this time of year due to the holidays and all. She's got a bad problem about keeping and holding onto stuff. Like that man of hers, beating up on her like that. You gonna come to the singin?" "I'm kind of tired. This yard sale stuff has worn me out," I replied. I was beginning to get concerned about how I was going to wiggle out of going to this singin'. These folks were a few cards shy of playing with a full deck and their elevators didn't quite make it to the top floor if you know what I mean. Bless their hearts, I know they was just being friendly, but all I wanted to do was go sit in my recliner. A few moments passed and they were all gathered around Sissy when they called me over. "What's the total?" Cleo asked. I had no idea what I had told Sissy so I just said ten bucks. She had a mountain of junk and it was stuff that I didn't have to look at any more. It took all three of them four trips to carry it to the car. "Now, the singin' starts at 7 PM, but I want you to come a little early; there's a man I want you to meet," said Cleo. "I hear he's loose and likes to swing from the bedposts." "CLEO! Shut up and get in the car. Leave that lady alone," shouted Mister. With that, Cleo and Sissy nodded at me and got in the car. Mister was lingering behind and started fishing for something in his overalls. "You ain't got a pencil, do you? I wanted to write that fella's number down for ya, in case you want to do some swinging from the bed posts, he he. I'll be seeing ya. When you gonna have another yard sale?"

Cleo, Mister and Sissy...Part II

...Mister turned around slowly and headed back toward the car presumably to get his spit cup grumbling under his breath the whole way. "Lordy, that man is got the manners of a orange katan, what's it called, you know, one of them monkeys," Cleo said. "Orangutan," I volunteered. "Yea, that's it! Clyde. Right turn Clyde. Wasn't that Mr. Clint Eastwood's monkey that starred in all of those any which man I can movies." "Um, I don't think it was his monkey. And the movies were called Any Which Way But Loose, I think," I said. "Well, I don't know 'bout you, but I'll take my man loose, monkey like swinging from the bed posts or any which way I can, he he. Mister don't swing like he used too!" "Cleo, stop talking! That lady don't need to be hearing things like that. You said you was gonna watch yourself," said Mister. Meanwhile, Sissy was looking over the goods left out on the tables and holding up one item after the other asking how much I wanted for it. I'd name a price and she'd nod her head in agreement and put it aside. Cleo and Mister were fussing at each other and occasionally looking over at Sissy and the pile growing steadily beside her. I stopped putting away stuff, because the way things were looking, Sissy was gonna buy everything I had left. "What are you doing tonight?" Cleo asked. "You wanna come go with us to the singing? It's out there on the four lane and you turn right on Upper Dowdy Doo Lane and turn right at the big red bird house. You can't miss it." "Well, it's probably going to be after dark before I get finished putting all of this stuff up," I replied. "Why, pshaw!" Cleo said. "We'd be glad to help you put it away. 'Side's, when Sissy gets through shopping, there ain't going to be much left..."

Cleo, Mister and Sissy...Part I

It was late Saturday afternoon and I was beginning to pack up the remnants from my weekend yard sale when an old beat up station wagon pulled slowly down the driveway. I glanced in their direction and was met with three hands stuck out the window all waving in unison at me. "Hey! Are you closed? Do we have time to pick through your leftovers? I told Mister here that we needed to get our butts, pardon my French, in gear or we was gonna miss all the sales and be late for the Singing," the elderly woman said. "Nope, you're not too late. Have a look around, you might find something that you can't live without and it'll be less for me to pack up," I answered. The car stopped and out climbed the old woman who was wearing orange lounging pants, a deep purple moo moo and black Chuck Taylor running shoes. Her wig sat perched slightly askew on her head and her straw hat sat off center the other way giving her a slightly lopsided look. She approached me immediately, extended her hand and said, "I'm Cleo, that's Mister, who I been shacked up with since '76, when my husband up and died on me. Ain't got no strings on him, he's free to come and go as he pleases, s'long as he pleases me. He He!" I shook her hand and she continued. "That lady there is his daughter, Sissy. She stays with us sometimes, usually when her old man goes on a drunk and starts beating up on her. I, swan, for the likes of me can't fathom the way some women put up with them goings on. I told Mister here if he ever laid a hand on me I'd cut it off as fast as I could pull my knife out. You're old man ever do that to you? Get yourself a knife, that'll keep him in line. Look at me, going off at the mouth like that. Let me get here and see what you got for sale. I'm proud to say I don't ever buy nothin' new, I get all my stuff at yard sales. Hey Mister, you got any more of that snuff with you? Let me get some, this little lady might want some. You like my outfit? I got it last week over at the community thrift store." Mister, wearing bib overalls, a Grateful Dead t-shirt and a John Deere cap, walked over to us and offered the aforementioned can of snuff. I declined politely and so did Cleo. Mister shrugged his shoulders, drew his head back, and spat out a big ole drop of brown gooey tobacco juice that left a trail from is chin halfway down to his boots. "Wipe yourself Mister! This lady don't want to see your spit. Go get your cup..."

Is That For Sale?

So, I was crazy enough to have another yard sale before winter set in, by myself. I asked mom if she wanted to come help but she thought I was nuts for trying to have a sale this late in the year and she wasn't participating. (I guess it didn't matter that I was selling some of her stuff) Anyhow, midway between my umpteenth visit to the basement, attic, and storage building, my back gave out. I backed into the metal part on my utility trailer and gave myself a six inch long bruise and then I sprained my ankle when I doubled over in pain from bumping the trailer. Needless to say, it was after 10:30 AM this morning before I had put my signs up by the road, and by yard sale standards, that was extremely late if I hoped to make any money. Since I live at the bottom of a hill I get a lot of folks that slow down and then realize that I am at the bottom of a hill and keep on going. Fine! If you're too lazy to get out and look then you probably want to complain about the prices of everything and want me to sell you a twenty-five dollar item for twenty-five cents. Keep going, I don't want your business anyway. The third guy that pulled up wanted to buy my utility trailer. The fourth guy that pulled up wanted to know if I had any mowers I wanted to get rid of. Now, that's a loaded question. I've discussed before about my piece of crap mower and what you don't know is that the danged thing broke down again earlier this year. I took the guy to the basement and showed him the mower and he started asking if my tools, my fishing poles, and my Christmas decorations were for sale. He made me a tad nervous so I hightailed it back up front. Weirdo. Later, someone wanted to buy my leaf rake. Another wanted to by a bistro table (which I don't have) and someone else wanted to buy a microwave. Mom called early afternoon and asked how things were going. I was bellyaching about my bruised butt (which was the part that ran into the trailer), my ankle that I had wrapped in an ace bandage that was horribly swollen and how everyone wanted to buy everything that wasn't for sale. Mom's response: "I didn't know you was selling your trailer. How much you want for it?"

Thirteen Dollars...Part II

If you have never seen a 70ish woman giggle at the sight of her daughter trying on and removing an authentic beehive wig from the '60s then you're really missing out. I was laughing so hard I made myself have a coughing fit, began to hyperventilate and 'bout made myself throw up. Mom had tears running down her face and kept slapping her knee so hard that she gave herself a big bruise. As I started to go through some of the other boxes and items that Mom had set out I was met with a rush of memories and emotions from my childhood back on Cherry Fork Road. Sometimes, it's amazing how something so unassuming like a brightly colored orange crock pot circa 1975 can bring forth such powerful emotions. My Dad loved to cook white northern beans in that crock pot. To go along with those beans we would have fried potatoes and corn bread cooked in the cast iron skillet. I can smell them cooking right now. Other items that we thought had been lost but were now being rediscovered were my father's military uniforms from his hitch in the Army. I also found my cowboy hat from my childhood that I had forgotten having. It became apparent early on Sunday that it hadn't been such a good idea to have the yard sale on Sunday. After a tasty lunch of T'bone steaks [that Boy (my brother) cooked] and baked potatoes Mom finally agreed it was time to put the stuff away. We had zero, zilch, nada, no one and nobody come to the yard sale on Sunday. It took over four hours to put everything away and to take down the 20+ signs that Mom had put up all over town. Mom looked like someone had taken a bat to her body because of all the bruises she got from carrying the rubber totes around. I saw her clutch her chest once after lifting a box of National Geographic magazines from 1975 which gave me slight pause but she said she was okay. My bad knee won't bend at all and is stuck ramrod straight. We were exhausted. Mom said she had had such a good time and had made some money (125 bucks) that she was going to have the yard sale again in a few weeks. She said I could leave my stuff there if I wanted too and come back and help out once again. I'm not really sure about that. If you haven't figured it out by now I didn't really make any money in my two days of selling. Yep, I only made thirteen dollars!

Having A Yard Sale...Part II

It sure had turned out to be a beautiful day. I worked all day setting things up for the big yard sale. I figured out halfway through the afternoon that if I strap items onto my hand cart they move a whole lot easier. (Duh) Anyhow, I flirted with the weather all week. Those dang meteorologists sure are fickle. They haven’t been able to make a decision on weather it was going to rain or not—it’s enough to drive the MA Fat Woman insane. I know I was hoping for rain because I was trying to get out of having the yard sale. To tell you the truth, I was just being lazy. I thought having the sale on a Friday would bring more people in—I was wrong. I think I was averaging one customer every thirty minutes. I did have one elderly gentleman who spent 45 minutes. We were having such a nice conversation that I invited him to sit a spell and view the seens from the porch. I was having a glass of sweet tea and he remarked that the tea sure did look good. So, being the neighborly thing to do, I got him a glass as well. I like to negotiate the prices at a yard sale. I mark my items a little higher so people will negotiate with me. Some folks will look at the price and drop it like a hot potato if it isn’t marked 25 cents or lower. That’s fine with me; I didn’t want your business anyway. I am happy to report that I only had one item of clothing and one piece of plastic furniture for sale. If I were out going to yard sales, mine would be the perfect place to stop, I got lots of junk.

The Longest Yard Sale

As a frequent visitor to many yard sales in my area I jumped at the chance to go to the World's Longest Yard Sale that stretches through five states over a four day period every August. The yard sale winds for 654 miles from West Unity, Ohio to Gadsden, Alabama. And trust me when I say that a lot of people participate in this yearly adventure. If you are looking for a particular item to complete a collection or looking for an unusual gift for someone, then you have found the perfect place. There is only one problem: Where do you start? Since I live relatively close to Alabama, my mom decided that we should head over that way. We started out early (about 9:00) and were on our way. As we left town, it seemed that every other house was having a yard sale. (Hhhmmmm) Houston, I think we have a problem? Mom looked over at me and asked, "Do you want to stop at any of those?" "No! I want to go to Alabama, let's keep going." We kept going, and in the first twenty miles we probably passed over 20 yard sales. (I noticed Mom glancing over at me and frowning as we passed by each one.) We were over 100 miles from the official longest yard sale; I guess everyone wanted to get on the bandwagon. After driving for 1.5 hours we reached a town that was "officially" a part of the 654 mile shopper's paradise, Summerville, Georgia. Mom looked over at me and asked the same question once again. "Don't you want to stop at any of these sales?" Quite unexpectedly, I made a sharp right hand turn into a church parking lot that was crammed full of would be shoppers. I almost threw mom into the backseat and was rewarded with a look that used to send shivers of fear down my spine when I was a child: The over-the-glasses look. When you saw that look, you knew you were in trouble. I was out of the car in a flash and was making my way to a local park that was packed with sellers of all kinds. Mom, who was a little out of breath when she caught me wanted to know why I was in such a hurry. "Trolls," I said. "Oh dear," she replied. "We're never getting out of here." To the uneducated and uninformed, troll collecting is a multi-billion dollar industry worldwide. People have been known to spend their life savings on just the perfect troll. Trolls come in many shapes and sizes, colors and styles, and each collector has his or her own particular reason for collecting them. I have a reason but I keep it to myself. I walked right over to the troll vendor and began to peruse her wares. I looked up one table and down the next. (Nothing) I moved down to the next table and there it sat. Troll perfection!! It was a 1935 green-haired, orange-eyed beauty manufactured by the Alexander Family of southern Ohio. It stood slightly over 12 inches tall and was made of corn husks. It was a gold medal find in an unlikely place. It was the troll that I needed, longed for, and just had to have to complete my collection. Twenty years of collecting was boiling down to the next few minutes. The owner of the troll table sidled over to me and looked to be as old as the troll that I now held in my hand. "I see you're interested in old Tallulah?" she asked. "Not really," I said. (I was getting ready to do some negotiating; I didn't want to give myself away.) "Who you think you're kidding?" she said. "I've been waiting on someone like you for about 10 years since I decided that I was getting too dang old to collect these trolls anymore. I don't have family to pass 'em on to, and I sure as hell don't want the government to get 'em. I know how much the blasted thing is worth, so don't try to wear me down. How much you give me for it?" "Uh?" "I'll tell you what, I like the looks of you, you seem like nice folks, being here with your mom and all, I'll sell Tallulah to ya'll for 1 dollar. That's my final and only offer." As I looked over at mom and asked to borrow a dollar (I had brought only hundreds to purchase the troll) I tried to keep my composure. By this time the old lady was wrapping up my purchase and cackling to herself. I murmured a thanks and was about to walk away when suddenly I turned around and gave that woman the biggest hug I had ever given anybody. As she pulled away from the embrace she gave me one last look and said, "You take care of Tallulah for me." (Yes, ma'am) That's the story of my participation in this year's longest yard sale. We walked around the park and sampled a few food vendors and then were ready to go. I didn't make it to Alabama; in fact, I only made it to one town. And that was fine for me. There's always next year!! (I have a collection of kazoos that I'm working on.)