Anatomy of a Yard Sale

My mother had a huge yard sale this past week, and of course, by default, it became "our" garage sale and took on a life of it's own as we all pitched in with sorting, categorizing, pricing and selling. It was a success as she was able to clean out many closets and a storage space, and make some good money to help supplement her bank account. The rest of us were also able to make some modest change from things already ear-marked for Goodwill.

What surprised me this week was not the number of hours put in for preparation, or even the level of exhaustion we were all feeling by the end of the sale, but rather the level of emotional impact imposed by this yard sale. Don't get me wrong, I'm not talking about material things here. I love to get rid of things! I'm not a collector, not a pack rat, not that sentimental, really. (I have one memorabilia box that holds some cherished items, but for the most part, I travel light.) No, this wasn't emotionally demanding because of what I was placing on the tables to sell, but rather because of the memories and feelings that were stirred while looking through boxes of items Mom intended to sell. In recent years, my mother has become the caretaker and guardian of family "treasures". Not only were there items from my grandparents and my mother's home from throughout the years, but there were things from my childhood that reminded me of those innocent days of childhood before I became cognitive of all the "yuck" in the world.

Comforting, warm memories of my Grandma "H" (my maternal grandmother) came flooding in as I looked at the small white high chair that each of her grand children had sat in at one time or another. My sisters and I laughed as we could vividly remember the routine and then proceeded to act it out: Duck your head so you didn't get bonked in the noggin; raise your hands so your fingers didn't get "mashed"(a Grandma "H" term). She was a true Southern belle originally from Birmingham, Alabama who was very much a gentle, Christian woman with class and charm. She just seemed to know how to make everyone feel special and loved. Oh, I loved Grandma's kitchen. It always smelled so good. She made the best pot roast gravy, and every meal was a complete feast. We always knew the secret place she stored the cookies, which was always amazingly easily accessible to each of us, and never very 'secret'; and she threw the best tea parties, complete with real china teacups and cookies. I loved seeing that old, tattered high-chair at the yard sale, but I felt sad. I missed Grandma and all those warm, cozy times at her house. Days that were so rich and long gone.

As I continued to look through some items on a shelf at the sale, I discovered something from my fraternal grandparents. I hadn't realized it, but one of my favorite childhood books was actually my father's book given to him by his parents. There, on the inside cover of "Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel" (I know it is supposed to be underlined, but I haven't figured out how to do that on this blog yet!), was the inscription, "To Richard, love Mummy and Daddy, Christmas 1944." As I held this well-worn book in my hands I was overwhelmed with the sense of history, and family that I haven't yet met on another continent . My grandparents were English and moved to the States before my father was born. I never knew my Dad's father because he had died of a heart attack when my father was in high school. However, "Nanny" (my grandmother) was a part of my life until my college years. She was classically English--round and rosey-cheeked, complete with a thick accent. I remembered being intrigued with her when I was little and how she had different names for things than we did. For example, I can clearly remember the time she was going to change my brother's diaper and she wondered where we kept the "nappies." It took my sisters and me awhile to figure that one out! As a side note, the book wasn't sold in the yard sale, but rather it was "rescued" and set aside to look at another day.

As my sister and I continued unpacking boxes in preparation for the sale, we came across a small leather box that held a fistful of marbles. Oh! It was "the marble box!" We were all so excited! We hadn't seen this box in 30 years! I'll admit it, I smelled the box...it smelled the same...and there were my dad's initials carved into the side of it (I think he had made it when he was a teenager) along with some of the very same marbles we played with as children. The sight of this box brought tears to my eyes. You see, not unlike my Grandfather Low, my father Richard died from a heart attack when I was in high school. I was 16 and a sophomore; he was only 38. When he died, many of his things were either dispersed throughout the family or packed away. I only have a few things of his, and here, in this moment, we had unearthed a little treasure box, once again filled with childhood memories and remembrance of sweeter times...those early days long before my father left our home and filed for divorce from my mother... the times when we had "tickle fights" or were just silly and laughed until tears ran down our cheeks. It isn't that I held my father on a pedestal, or wish for those childhood days again, it is just coming to terms, again, with loss.

As we packed up the remaining unsold items from the yard sale and prepared them to be taken away to Goodwill, I was sobered by the reality of why we had the yard sale. My mother wanted to take care of all these family treasures before her strength diminishes and she loses her fight with the cancer that has aggressively invaded her body. Once again, my sisters, brother and I are preparing for loss.

I'm tired of the "losses" in life; Losses because of sin, losses because of death, losses because of our mortal bodies and age. I know no one escapes losses. They are a constant of life...And I'm just weary of them. The older I get, the more I long for Heaven--and the more I understand why my Grandmother would voice the same sentiment. The thought that there will be no more tears, no more sorrow and no more loss is mind-boggling. For the record, I really, truly do believe that Heaven is where my real family treasures are...And Jesus is preparing them for me right now. I'm so glad, and I can hardly wait!