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where I and a few other hundred strangers will, over the course of the weekend, sift through mounds of shabby articles: outdated clothes, mismatched dishes, pots and pans, enough coffee cups to serve a regiment, faded linens, obsolete electronics, a few earnest attempts from unknown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.”