As I step out the front door, the wang of skunk hangs in the air, oddly pleasant at a distance, like the faint aroma of a musky wild perfume.  The air is blessedly cool this morning with sun light falling in the slanted rays of autumn. 


Heading down the circle, I see an estate sale in the house at the far end of the street. On a whim, I decide to check it out.  

 

Cars line the curb in front of the middle class rancher where I and a few other hundred strangers will, over the course of the weekend, sift through mounds of shabby articles: outdated clothes, mismatched dishes, pots and pans, enough coffee cups to serve a regiment, faded linens, obsolete electronics, a few earnest attempts from unknown artists, dusty souvenirs, countless knickknacks, books nobody’s opened in years, baskets, jelly jars, holiday decorations, and a mess of other cast-offs and sundries.  

Estate sales always strike me as a sad testament to the homely little junk filled lives most of us, myself included, inhabit.

 

Picking over dingy artifacts, I am more voyeur than bargain hunter.  There’s nothing here I want.  Even before I walked down the driveway, I knew there would not be.   
 
                  I hope to God my sons never have an estate sale!
 

A few years back, I said to Walker,  “After your dad and I are dead, I don’t want any strangers prowling through this house.  You and Joe take what you want,  then dump the rest.  Promise me, Walker!  Tell me you’ll rent a dumpster and just haul it all away.”