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I am taking a short break from putting price tags on the things that I own to write this blog. I am having a garage sale to rid myself of my excess crap. I’m looking at all this stuff I am about to unload and I am reminded of how much time and effort I put into the purchase of each and every object. For example, this chair, lamp, picture frame, candy dish. I saw these items in a store and thought, “this would be perfect for my living room, bedroom, den,” brought it to the counter, charged it and dragged it home. For a brief time this item held a place of importance in the room that it was intended for. Over time, the item lost its importance. It was first moved into the office, then a spare bedroom, then out to the garage, and finally it’s dragged out to the driveway with a round, fluorescent pink sticker that reads $5.00.

Then there are the things that I purchased because this particular item was going to make a drastic change or profoundly improve my life. I think about the amount of weight I was going to lose because the fat in my barbecued meat was going to drip right out of the George Forman pan, and not end up on my waistline. Turns out I like my fat in my meat, and it never did improve the size of my waistline. $6.00. Then there is the “Pet–icure.” With this, I was going to save tons of money giving my dog Mottie* pedicures all by myself instead of taking her to the groomer. Turns out she hates it, and bites at my knuckles every time I try to use it. $4.00. How about the Epilady which was going to effortlessly remove unwanted hair, leaving behind smooth, “touchable” skin. It f’ing hurts! $2.00.

At the end of the driveway sits a table that hosts all the things that I bought during late night bouts of insomnia. The Time Life box set of 1970’s love songs. All the crap music that I didn’t listen to in the 1970’s assembled into 10 cd’s. $8.00. The chopper that was going to slice and dice my way into delicious salads that is still in the original box. $1.50. The Chia head. Get it? It is like the Chia pet, only instead of fur, the stuff grows out of his head. Hysterically cute at 3:00 in the morning, stupid in the light of day. $.75.  The total gym. It was going to give me the same body as Christie Brinkley in 20-minute workouts, or maybe it was Chuck Norris’s body in 35 minutes. I can’t remember. $150.00.

Towards the middle of the driveway sits our ping-pong table. This item was going to provide hours of family fun. All we did is argue over who cheated at the score. $50.00. Laid upon the ping-pong table in no particular order are all the unwanted gifts I have received with a smile and a sincere “thank you,” and then immediately tossed into the closet. There is a silverware organizer for parties, that for the life of me I can’t remember who gave me. $3.50. There are boxes of stationary with unattractively dressed middle-aged women complaining about housework, men or menopause. $1.00 each. A hand-knitted wool ski mask and mitten set, a completely un-useful item for sunny California. $3.00.

On the front steps organized by subject are all the books I purchased and never read. “How to Survive a Divorce,” “How to Find Love After a Divorce,” “How to Quit Eating After a Divorce,” “Gorilla Divorce,” “How Not to Get Screwed in a Divorce,” “How to Screw your Ex in a Divorce.” $.50 each.

Laid out on the front lawn are all the broken items. The hose with a crack sealed up with duct tape. $.75. The Mr. Coffee maker without a carafe. $1.00. The Sorry game missing only the green pieces, thrown out when my son was forced to be green, a color he found intolerable. $2.00.

I stand at the foot of my driveway and survey all of the crap that I am about to sell, and wonder who would want all this shit. But they do. The people will arrive at 6:00 a.m., ignoring the words “no early birds, opens at 8:00,” that are clearly printed in the Penny Saver ad. They will dig through my stuff, asking if they can plug in the vacuum cleaner to see if it works, and I only hope that it doesn’t start a fire or blow a fuse when they do. $8.00. They will ask me if I have the missing pillowcase to a set of sheets. I will pretend to look even though I know I tossed it out when the cat threw up on it. $4.00. They will cluck with excitement over some opaque glass nightlight given to me by ex-husband. $3.50. And they will bargain successfully for the weed whacker with the missing whacker part. $7.00 marked down to $5.00.

How do I know this? How do I know that all of this stuff, that I consider to be crap and unworthy of spending a single minute longer as one of my possessions would be considered a valuable find to someone else? Because, I plan to take the $120.80 that I make on this garage sale, and head on over to Hancock Park next weekend where I plan to haggle over someone else’s crap that I know is really a valuable find.

Now I wonder if I can get six bucks for this lamp that is missing the shade. Some drunk person sat on it at a party last year.

This last weekend, Mina* and I went to an estate sale.  The house, which was in Hancock Park, was massive with a gorgeous, sweeping marble staircase and grand piano in the foyer, and countless rooms branching off to the left and right.  The woman who had passed away was 101, we were told by the estate agent, and had lived in the house most of her life.  Her husband had been a famous movie producer whose main claim to fame was pioneering the early art of stop-motion animation.  He had passed away it appeared, by the style of clothes left in his closet, in the early ‘70s and his wife had remained on in the house alone.  

The woman had an astounding hat collection.  Each was stored in its own individual box, marked with the distinctive names of long-ago department stores such as Bullocks Wilshire and I. Magnin’s.  The frothy concoctions, sporting beautifully arranged feathers, fruit clusters and veils, were of varying sizes, some resembling large Kentucky Derby bonnets worn by Southern belles, some tiny pillboxes to be perched on top of carefully arranged curls. When examined closely, each presented its own hand-crafted milliner’s label, denoting which custom shop created the hat, and tiny, sewn-in hair combs to hold the hats in place.  The hats were individual works of art, each one, and were obviously loved and cherished for many decades. 

In the closet was a selection of beautiful vintage dresses, each in colors to match the hats.  Along the wall was a massive selection of petite shoes.  They were arranged from fifties and sixties styles to more recent.  The early shoes were spiked, stream-lined and elegantly decorated. The heels grew increasingly shorter as the decades passed and the styles less flamboyant as the needs of the woman changed.  The last several pairs were flat, wide and obviously utilitarian.

The story of the passing years and events in the woman’s life was recorded in her clothes.  An enormous collection of soft, kid evening gloves, long and short in various subtle shades, was displayed alongside boxes and boxes of unopened support hose.  Folded, petite handkerchiefs featuring tiny embroidered designs, lay on the bed next to a pile of “Best Grandma” t-shirts and ugly flannel nightgowns.  Time had wrought its changes. 

I tried to imagine the lady of the house in her prime – a gorgeous, sophisticated woman attending all the best parties during Hollywood’s Golden Age, with her handsome husband on her arm.  Days were spent lunching with friends and relaxing in private salons at Bullocks Wilshire, choosing outfits from live models.  Evenings found her at invitation-only soirees or movie premieres.  She took pride in being à la mode and everyone admired her sense of style. 

As the years passed, however, and her husband was no longer by her side, she spent more and more time at home, forgoing the parties for comfortable evening with friends and family.  She packed away her stylish clothes and focused her efforts on expanding her collections, from the M.I. Hummel figurines to the Middle Eastern lamps that were showcased all over the house.  Eventually, she couldn’t move around very easily and spent the majority of her time downstairs in the den, watching tv.  The kitchen and front and back yards were allowed to deteriorate since she barely used either.  Eventually she died in her sleep, happy to still be in her own home. 

Hanging on the living room wall was an Art Deco Louis Icart print, called “Illusion.” In it, the form of stylized nude woman unfurls out of the smoke rising from a cigarette.  Mina was kind enough to purchase it for me as an early birthday present.  It hangs now on the wall of my considerably smaller, less grand “estate” in the Valley.  I also purchased three, mint-condition cameras in their original packaging (a ’55 Bell & Howell 16mm movie camera, a ‘60s-era Polaroid Land Camera and an early ‘70s Kodak Automatic 35).  They are now exhibited in an antique, glass-enclosed display case in my dining room.  As a photographer I’m thrilled to own all three, hoping eventually to be able to use them (if I can find film).

For the last couple of nights I have imagined that the original owner has come to visit me, looking over the place where many of her prize possessions have ended up.  She nods approvingly, knowing that they have found a good home with someone who loves them.  She then moves on to Mina’s house where the hat, shoe and glove collections now reside.  Each collection has been carefully catalogued, and the hats have each been returned to the boxes where they are supposed to rest.  The woman feels good, knowing Mina, an avid appreciator and collector of ‘20s-‘60s era fashions, will cherish and care for the items, just as she did.  Then, like the woman in “Illusion,” she turns into smoke and rises, drifting away, happy.

(Photo credit, Katie West)