1. GarageSale
ByAmyE.Lawrence,MFA
It was November, 2006. Two weeks before Thanksgiving. Packing up for a
garage sale is no picnic, I found little to be thankful for that weekend. Off with the old,
it’s no fun organizing, but it’s a necessary part of moving on in life – shedding old skin
and being brave enough to move on throughout the world with out the old identities
we’ve acquired, self-appointed or otherwise.
As I sifted through my Aunt Cathy’s old blankets and towels, I found a blanket
an ex-boyfriend lent to me years ago to bring my little puppy “Scooter” to see my family.
It somehow “made the cut” and it was still around. I couldn’t part with it yet again.
Scooter had passed on Sept 11, 2005, 7 years after I bought him from a breeder who
assured me he wouldn’t make it a year. It is my belief that love lent him that 7 year
stretch into my life. I miss him more than I’d missed any human at that point in my life. I
was thankful for my time with him.
It’s amazing how far love can take us. The day of the garage sale had arrived. I
perused over old cowboy boots, photographs, purses, old stuffed animals, and realized the
extraordinary experiences of ordinary days. My Aunt Cathy, my cousin Montana, and
myself began to sell pieces of their past box by box on Taos street in Victoria, TX. One
by one the old boxes, stuffed with the “fillers” of the past, sold one almost before they hit
the bargain tables. Some boxes were taped at the bottom – something other than
themselves was holding them together – still, they held together somehow. I could relate
to such an existence, one “held together” despite the wear and tear of life. Those old
boxes give me hope. Inside of them, someone else could find a treasure, where time stole
the magic of the brand new gifts from long ago. Our weathered gifts were on
consignment, the way we all are once we have experienced pain, loss, the death of a
loved one or a relationship. But the good news is, people are literally lining up to put
their bid in on their would-be treasure. It’s a beautiful thing, and I was thankful for the
chance to share that day with complete strangers.

2. I watched eager shoppers with their $8 in change try to haggle down on the prices
with my intelligent, yet unassuming cousin; from $2, down to $0.75 on a pair of leather
boots. I watched my family sell old clothes, Christmas ornaments, sheets, fuzzy purple
comforters that looked like the spawn of Cookie Monster and Barney – quite a scary
sight. I, for one, am glad I never had to sleep with it…although I’ve had a monster or two
in my bed over the years. (Hopefully they are worth more than $2.50 – perhaps $2.75 but
somehow I doubt it). I was thankful those monsters were in my past.
Delight filled my family’s eyes as coins dropped one after another in the leather
money bag from the local bank. Not so much a celebration for the money itself, rather,
each quarter, dime, and penny collected meant they were that much closer to moving on
to their rich new life. Rich in a sense (“cents”) of belonging somewhere, to someone, and
a place to lay down some roots. Finally. It was definitely my Aunts turn to find happiness
and a place that belonged not only to her, but she to it. From rented houses, to
apartments, to purchase homes, quaint and precious enough to hold the two of them, my
Aunt, after kissing a frog or two, has met her prince and her John Deer tractor (her
chariot) was waiting for her arrival on the 160-acre ranch her fiancé has recently
purchased in Shiner, TX. This was a God-send. A true miracle of all miracles in that she
had to struggle through so many losses to get to her barn of a mansion for so many years,
and today, only four days of having her house on the market, it already had a caller
making a bid. Her fiancés house sold the first day it went up. The houses selling in less
than a week, along with the lawn-mower and 24 (it could have been 27-inch) television
set she had no intentions of selling. The bottom line, “If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to
be.” I was thankful for happy endings.
Among the $0.25, there was a vintage scrapbook purchased by one of my Aunt’s
good friends at an estate sale in the past year. The scrapbook belonged to a woman
named Beatrice. It was a precious collection of the black and white memories that
documented her life. “Well wishers” signed in beautiful penmanship, inscriptions from
the past that have been replaced with electronic signatures and “memory albums”
generated on a computer. The date on one of the salutations was 19 May, 1934, the very
date of the garage sale held on Taos street in Victoria, TX on this day, 19 May 2006.

3. How did these very precious memories from an educated, eager, and ambitious
young woman escape the curious hands of her children, her grandchildren, and their
children’s children? From an estate sale, to a garage sale. (It wasn’t brought to sell in the
garage sale, the scrapbook, you see, had a special destiny and I’ll explain that later.) My
heart ached a bit for Beatrice. Her life was in the hands of complete strangers, who were
“coincidentally” moving to the very town she grew up in, Shiner TX. I asked my Aunt
and soon-to-be Uncle to please try and contact those who had listed their street addresses
in hopes that someone who knows someone (And in small towns, like Shiner, TX,
EVERYBODY knows someone) will return it to their rightful owners. I wondered if
somehow in the estate sale, Beatrice’s family had simply overlooked this treasure and it
luckily fell into the hands of someone who knew someone who might know someone to
make its way into her life deeply rooted in familiar, soil. She did not want her life to go
unaccounted for, and she recorded quite eloquently and tediously, those moments that
kept her gaze. Those moments held my gaze as well. I was thankful for the treasure in my
hands.
As my “trendy” jewelry flew out the door below my suggested price, (my
contribution to the sale), I suddenly cared nothing for my “savings” for moving on and up
in life. I had recently obtained my Master’s Degree, and was ready to take the world by
the horns and “make my mark” in corporate America, ignoring my dreams of being a
writer. But I was hypnotized by her Beatrice’s life and the memories she worked so hard
to save. Her journey cast a spell on my soul, and I couldn’t wait to get back to my journal
to record this special day.
But there I stood, autumn showering me with orange, brown, and red leaves. With
my journal and pen in hand, Scooter’s flannel blanket I brought home from the garage
sale on my lap I felt suspended in appreciation; extraordinary events that occurred on an
ordinary day with my family. I began to weep as I thought of old memories, of my
carefree childhood and the silly fights my sister and I would get into. (I once hit her over
the head with a loaf of Wonder Bread. I think that was the extent of any “violence” that
occurred between us. I couldn’t be trusted with baked goods. )
I remembered the happy days when my parents were still married, and the first
puppy (the only puppy) we ever got, “Ruben,” a dachshund that died days after my

4. parents divorced 17 years after his birth. Mom says he died of a broken heart, and I
believed her. Today, I stopped long enough to appreciate my family, my past, and the
immense beauty that hides and resides in all of it. I was grateful for that garage sale. It
showed me the value of things that often go on forgotten, or stored away somewhere in
an old box. And it was in that moment, that I realized all things in my life, were truly
priceless. I was thankful for that day; unforgettable. Priceless among the low prices.
Giving thanks. Invaluable.
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Contact: writeonmissamy@yahoo.com