THE DETRITUS OF A LIFE

I was driving home from the library when I noticed an "Estate Sale" sign in a front yard and a bunch of cars parked all up and down the street. Naturally, I tromped on the brakes.

I don't know how many times I have tried to swear off garage sales. It is like swearing off cigarettes or gossiping or any other persistent bad habit. I always backslide. I know I already have a house full of junk, but I can't resist. One time I got a big box of hundreds of country-and-western cassette tapes for $4. Another time I got a full set of barely used T-Fal pans free, because the lady knew me. You never know what you might find. It might even be something you can use.

However, I had forgotten one thing--estate sales are depressing. They are a way of getting rid of all the junk Mom and Dad have accumulated over the course of 80 years or more on earth, after you have put them in the nursing home or under the grass. It is all stuff that they treasured too much to pitch out, but that their kids wouldn't have if you beat them over the head with it.

It is so sad to browse through this stuff and listen to it scream out to you about their lives. Look at these old vinyl LP's of Lawrence Welk and Guy Lombardo. You can see Mom and Dad sitting there, tapping their feet and feeling romantic. But oops, what's this! "Knockers Up!" by Rusty Warren. One of the original "party albums," all the rage back in the 1950's or 1960's, when couples used to get together at somebody's house and get a little naughty drinking beer and listening to comedy albums. Tame stuff by today's standards, but pretty shocking back then.
Apparently Mom and Dad were into a little more than Champagne Music. The devils.

On to the kitchen. Look here--a big box full of yellowed Tupperware. Gazillions of teenyweeny plastic containers for saving a tablespoon of peas or a dollop of mashed potatoes. One for taking deviled eggs to the picnic. A huge bowl for salads. A weird looking one with a domed lid--oh, yeah, that was for keeping a head of lettuce fresh in the refrigerator. And what do you bet, she had a Fridgedaire and called it "the icebox." Obviously, this lady had lots of friends and they all had Tupperware parties and called her up and begged, "You don't have to buy anything, just come!"

And judging from the contents of another box, her best friend must have been the Avon Lady. Jars of half-used stuff, tubes of pink lipstick, and hundreds of free samples. Her friend always had a lot of free samples left over and shared them with her, and then she felt obligated to buy something from next month's catalog and she got more free samples with her purchase and pretty soon . . . . All this stuff looks really old. What happened to her friend? Did she die? Move away? Go to work at Wal-Mart? No matter, she already had a lifetime supply of cosmetics.

The worst part is the clothing. Dad's old suits and ties and yellowed white shirts that you had to iron. Snappy, dust-covered fedoras. Stacks of gimme caps. Plaid, shortsleeved sports shirts that you have to iron. Khakis that you have to iron. Didn't these people ever hear of Permapress? A loud Hawaiian shirt, obviously never worn--To Dad, on Father's Day. And her stuff. Lots of polyester pants suits in pastel colors. I bet she really sweated in them in this climate. Several dressy dresses, polyester again, also pastel colors, the kind you wear to church. Bet she went to Sunday School, too. Lots of size 14's and 16's. Never lost that weight she put on having babies. Dozens of shoes, some of them highheels, lightly worn, the others those old-lady shoes with the soft leather and built-up heels. She wore the heck out of these but never threw them away. Had a bad bunion on the big toe of one foot. No sneakers.

I will spare you the books (religious, self-help, romance novels, mysteries), the furniture (nice stuff), the tools (handyman stuff), several signed paintings of flowers and fruit. You get the idea.

I might mention everything has a certain aroma one associates with the homes of the elderly. A subtle mixture of deodorizer, Ben-Gay, and cat piss.

But, as I said, you get the idea.

It started me thinking, though, and I am putting my kids on notice, herewith:

When I'm gone, take whatever you want. Then throw a match on the rest.