I have eye-opening experiences in odd places. I want to tell you about one that took place a few years ago at a house on 80th Street in Lubbock, a few houses away from where we used to live. Our former neighbors were having an estate sale, and I have to confess, I’m a sucker. So I strolled down to take it all in. The sale was professionally managed, well organized, and quite thorough. They were selling what appeared to be everything that wasn’t bolted to the walls or floor.
Like most estate sales, this was a trip back in time. And somewhere amid the 8-track tapes, 70s-era stereo, and the costume jewelry, it happened. Somewhere in my own mind, I was standing in the middle of my own estate sale. Watching crowds of strangers pick over my treasures that, over the years, I had spent tens of thousands of dollars on. Seeing them bargain with somebody over curtains or books or something – for dimes on the dollar, of course. “Dear God,” I half-exclaimed and half-prayed, “tell me there’s more to my life than old stuff to be bartered over!”
As I continued to wander through the house, I could identify with the fun and excitement of this family as they had purchased that new appliance, received that special Christmas gift, or took advantage of those today-only prices and sales. In so many ways, this was a typical American family. Nice house. Nice stuff, albeit touched by time. And now all of it was being left behind.
It’s bad etiquette, I suppose, to actually ask about the people whose possessions we’re pilfering through. Are they still living? Do they have family? Could I be standing next to their daughter or niece? But I couldn’t help but wonder. As I stood in what once was their home, I felt sure I was looking at a poor reflection of who these people really were.
{ Comments on this entry are closed }






