Today, it’s raining. I’m sitting out in my garage for the second day of what was a prosperous garage sale. Today, the only thing I have to account for my time is the cool breeze that is blowing and the overcast sky that intermittently drops rain from passing clouds. The little rabbit in my neighbor’s yard across the street bounds over little clumps of grass and burrows its nose in her flowers. The breeze rustles the leaves in my maple tree, shaking loose droplets of rainwater. The mosquito bites on my legs and arms irritate me to the point that I am compelled to scratch them in futile attempts to momentarily alleviate my suffering. Birds call out to one another in shrills and twills. What is it they’re saying to one another? I want to know. I want to be intimately acquainted with their conversations and lives, but since I don’t speak bird I’ll have to settle for their syncopated melodies.
I wait for people to show up at my garage sale and buy my goods. Yesterday I didn’t have a moment’s rest and happily sold off wares for $5, $1, and 50 cents. Yesterday I didn’t think. I smiled. I visited. I made change. I gave discounts. I made a profit and felt good that I could use that money towards my upcoming Asheville adventure. Today, I’ve made under $5 and I am forced to confront theses symbolic bits and pieces of my life.
The mismatched antique glasses of orange and turquoise half filled with water that sit on my bedside table and coffee tables. The worn peach colored antique Fire King mixing bowl that held my first successful attempt at fancy mashed purple potatoes. The neatly folded shirts, sweaters, and pants that I wore as a teacher now show small clumps of dog and cat hair that I have desperately been trying to brush off with the lint roller. Tiny knick-knacks that decorated my buffet table and gave my house a homey look. Salt and pepper shakers, Christmas ornaments, lightbulbs even – all these things that at one point meant so much to me or were a small necessity to my daily comfort – have a price on them. Meaning, to some degree, my life has a monetary value, and a cheap one at that.
I walk over to the book section and look at the dejected and rejected books that I once enjoyed. Books that once captured my attention and took me away from my lonely space in my big living room and sent me around the world and to different eras: the Vietnam War, Spain in the 1800s, or magical lands hidden in the Amazon forest. Now, they are worth 50 cents and will transport others to the same places but allow different interpretations on how things look, feel, taste, sound, and smell.
Halloween and Christmas decorations that resided in various places around my house are now piled on top of one another in a box or are draped over a folding table in the center of my garage. They await a new place that can return them to their former glory. Desktop items that lauded their superiority as official property of an English teacher are now crammed together on a table and propped up against my garage wall. They too are marked 50 cents and sit next to the costume jewelry I used to wear in my former, more glamorous and intimidating days as a demanding, yet beloved English teacher. (And to think my students would grab that hole punch off my desk when I wasn’t looking so as to punch holes in their IDs and slip in their equally cheap lanyards so as to avoid the pricey cost of a $5 ID replacement. Or they would use the pencils in that quirky pencil holder to draw penises on the computer paper in my printer.)
My friend texted me the other day and asked me how packing was going. At that point, it was a bit overwhelming and frustrating (when is it ever really easy, though?) and I was feeling stressed, tired, and achy. She wrote: “We forget how much the physical is related to the emotional until we try to shove it all in a cardboard box. . .” How right she is. In front of me is 16 years of stuff piled up and on display for others to see some aspect of my life. How strange that seems when put in this perspective. Even the items I’ve labeled as “Free” have some history or emotion attached to them. The tiny mason jar Christmas tree snow globe my former friend, an artist, made for me reminds me of all the good memories and friendship ending fight we had. It shows me that at one time in our lives together we really liked each other, laughed with each other, shared our thoughts, ideas, and dreams with each other. And now, she is out of my life: this very important, complicated, creative person who encouraged me to write and start a blog, and the very same person who became angered and poisonous and disdainful at my personal growth and daringness to confront her vicious words aimed at me but truly stemming from her own anger and personal growth and discovery. That snow globe is proof that she existed in my life and is gone from my life as well.
The blocks of material I once cut and attempted to sew into a “yo-yo” quilt like my creative, generative, nurturing, and fierce Grandma Loy once made are tucked in the corner of the “Free” section, too. The project was a quarter of the way finished but is now lost to time and my deadened desire to channel my creativity in an honorary manner – a slight hope to revive my grandma’s memory and a large frustration and need to let the project die and create something that is uniquely my own. “Free” of a price tag, these things are also “free” of old attachments that serve me no longer. Besides, my memories course through my lymphatic system and don’t always need items to prove or provoke that these people, these moments, these hopes, dreams, and these fears and frustrations, and these beautiful expressions of a life fully lived still exist and will travel with me even when they get put back into cardboard boxes and carted off to a thrift store while I move on and collect new things and new memories.