When our neighborhood association announced it would hold a yard sale and we were welcome to participate at our homes, we jumped at the opportunity. Our house is cluttered. Clean, but cluttered. Our Depression-era parents installed in us the conviction that we should not throw out anything if we can sell or palm it off on someone else. They didn’t call it recycling, but they were fine with the concept. And who among us has blithely tossed out the ceramic plate your now-college student painted in kindergarten?
We signed up. This culminated in two successive days of overturning the house in search of worthwhile merchandise, my husband irrationally removing much of it from the consideration, including 30-year old ski goggles, and more sensibly, his professional artist cousin’s lithographs. The two cats were distraught, not knowing what this disruption meant or could mean for cats (cats tend to be pessimistically Russian in these matters). We went without sleep.
At 6 am, which for us was the equivalent of you early risers awakening at 2 am, we were setting up our sale outside with the rising sun. It turned out to be a beautiful, sunny, mid-sixtyish degree day with a periodic brisk breeze. Well before the appointed hour of 8 am, we had to turn away would-be buyers. “Come back at eight o’clock.” I hate people breaking the rules to seize advantage. One was businesslike in demanding “vinyl records? Jewelry?” But they at least were not robbers. Friends who live a block away joined our sale with their old hamster tank, giant plastic owl, and books, and made for good company.
Five hours later, we closed up. What did we learn, for those of you considering holding such a sale?
- Nobody wants your junk. The items that went briskly were the original Pyrex double-sided serving dish; the hand-thrown Italian ceramic salad set that now only reminded me of a friendship lost to politics; the Waterford glassware; the 1960s mahjongg set; the 1950’s silverware. Our buyers had taste.
- Even with the non-junk, they want to spend virtually nothing on it. A pair of Tiffany candleholders, with original label and priced at $3 each, was too much for a buyer who wanted to spend $3 for both of them. My beautiful black patent high-end no-longer fitting pumps, never worn, in original packaging, someone wanted to pay $2.50 for, not $10, along with a pair of gently worn clogs. A buyer demanded to spend $2 instead of $3 on a lovely dark blue dress perfect for a spring evening wedding. My husband gave in.
- They don’t want your clothes, even the designer brands. Clothes are cheap these days.
- Sometimes you are grateful that somebody will just take something off your hands. A friendly middle-aged couple that I had to disappoint on the shoes was willing to take an old portable CD player for nothing. I did not want to risk that the CD player might not be working. In those cases, give it away and save your conscience.
- A free box is fun for kids. That’s where the possibly dried out art supplies and small toys go. Don’t even try to sell those. The kids had fun rummaging through the box.
- When a middle-aged woman bought about 10 of the glittery miniature notebooks and unicorn key rings (Oriental Trading detritus), I asked her if she was a teacher. When she said yes, I told her to take the entire basket of the trinkets. “Oh, are you a teacher?” she asked. “No, but I appreciate your work,” was my answer.
- Never assume anything is destined for the junkyard. We thought it would be impossible to give away 20-years’ worth of National Geographics, but by 8:10 am a man had carted them all off for his brother, a teacher.
- Talking with good people is a chief reward of the effort. My favorite customer was the courteous old roofing guy in the sailor’s cap. He bought an almost-new LL Bean sweater, my quaint Cambodian NGO hanging, my mother’s four prints of English stately homes from our 1970’s dining room, and my daughter’s illuminated globe. He collects globes, he said, but never spends more than $3 on any one. We chatted for at least 10 minutes.
- If your social life needs a boost, this can help. My husband, who is normally not keen on such things, kept saying for weeks how much fun he had organizing the sale and interacting with passerby.
- You will not maximize utility on these sales, at least not conventionally. We earned about $80 for our work all morning and the previous two days, and after subtracting the cost of the stainless-steel clothing rack, our profit was about $40. But you will meet interesting people and have readymade bags full of old clothing to take to the thrift store. It was a somewhat elaborate way to incentivize housecleaning. And we did garner the courage to throw out stuff that in the cold, hard light of day, was not worth keeping.
Of course, my brain hummed with larger political and social conclusions from the yard sale. Is there another country where yard sales are common? Is the phenomenon of the yard sale a reflection of the American character, where abundance is assumed, and even becomes a hindrance? Everyone dreams of a windfall, whether as a seller, or a buyer who hopes to come across an original Picasso in the framed art pile.
The very specific time and place of the suburban yard sale suggests that yard sales require sufficient road and foot traffic, ideally sidewalks, and shoppers who will not grab your belongings and run away with them. You need a relatively “high trust” environment. Is that what Tocqueville would say about the yard sale were he to reappear today? (in 1830, nobody had the luxury of selling their outworn belongings, let alone replacing them with throwaway stuff from China). Some sociology student has doubtless written a PhD dissertation on the subject of yard sales, replete with sneering commentary on the bourgeoisie that has too much stuff to be considered virtuous, but too little to be tasteful.
In the end, I will remember that the roofer said when making his purchase, that we should be grateful to live in a nice neighborhood such as ours with such good people.
Paula Weiss is the author of The Antifan Girlfriend and The Deplorable Underground.