The Moving Sale

Photo by Jasmin Schreiber on Unsplash

Presale Cleaning: To Nudge or Not to Nudge

“How about this one?” I ask my mother-in-law, holding up a pewter platter.

“I need to think about that one. Just leave it for now,” she says.

The look on my face triggers an explanation.

“I may want to give it to a friend.”

May.

“What about these?” I point to a collection of hand-painted tiles carefully arranged behind her stove.

“Oh, I want to leave those until I move. They are pretty,” she says.

“Are you sure? You’re moving in a few weeks. They probably won’t fit in your new kitchen,” I say awkwardly, trying not to be pushy.

“Did my son tell you to nudge me?” she asks suspiciously.

I pause for a second, thinking about the text I got that morning- Thanks for helping my mom. Be firm. We only have a few weeks.

“Well, he said to make progress,” I say and we laugh because we both know I’m sugarcoating.

I look around the large great room at all the knickknacks, each special in its own way. To say she’s downsizing is an understatement. She’s going from an expansive home on 5 acres to a small unit in a lovely retirement community.

I leave the hand-painted tiles behind the stove and move on.

“What about these?” I ask, holding up a stack of soup bowls.

“Moving sale,” she says.

I climb down the step ladder, pile the bowls next to the other sale items, and then climb back up the ladder.

“How about these tea cups and saucers?” I ask.

“Toss. They are cheap and a few are chipped,” she says.

A slight euphoria rushes over me as I put them in the large black garbage bag and firmly tie it shut. The urge to toss more creeps in, but I keep myself in check.  

I tend to be at the opposite end of the spectrum. My constant quest to eliminate clutter has caused me to defend myself more than once when family accuses me of throwing away things they still wanted. They say I’m not sentimental enough.

Dodging Deer

“I’m taking this out,” I say, picking up the heavy garbage bag.

I haul it across the lawn to the carport, preparing to dodge deer again.

As I make my way to the throw piles, four beautiful fawns glare at me. They’ve been lounging here all morning. Clearly, I’m the one intruding in their space.

They reluctantly stand up, more from instinctual habit than real fear.  

“You know,” I say lightheartedly. “You may be graceful and nature-y, and those tales are cute and fluffy, but you’ve managed to irritate my mother-in-law by eating all her beautiful plants and flowers. You’ve destroyed her entire yard and deck a dozen times over the years,” I say.

They continue to glare, unintimidated. Words that express their demeanor: “Valley Girl, go back to your low-lying land and leave us be in our hills.”

As I head back to the house, I turn and look. They’re already lying down again.

Being Given the Boot

A few hours later, we’ve cleaned out most of the kitchen.

“I have 45 minutes until I have to leave. Let’s tackle these last two bottom cupboards,” I say eagerly.

“Oh, you don’t have time for that. I don’t want you to be rushed,” she says.

“I won’t be rushed. We have time. Then we will be done except for the pantry,” I say enthusiastically.

“No,” she says decidedly. “That’s enough for today. I’m done for now.”

The finality in her tone means I’m being shooed away.  

I take the cue.

Go Time

On day one of the moving sale, I sip my coffee and drive the windy roads up to her house. It’s Friday morning, but the three-day weekend traffic is already in full swing as people pass through the foothills to the Sierras. I’m stuck behind a slow line of RVs, trucks loaded with camping gear, trailers with boats, kayaks strapped to SUVs, and bicycles crammed on bike racks.

A mile before her road, I spot a bright sign strategically designed and positioned to draw people’s attention to her moving sale. As I near her road, I see two more catchy signs. Big purple balloons are tied to all of them.

The sale is underway. Cars are parked alongside the narrow uphill driveway. People mosey around, picking things up and then putting them down.

The Squad

I’m introduced to the squad- Carolee, Sandy, Diane, and Rose. They are my mother-in-law’s good friends. All live nearby, all are sharp-witted and energetic. The best of Mother Hen, Martha Stewart, and Annie Oakley.  By the end of the day, I decide they could run a self-sustaining homestead, a Fortune 500 company, or the nation (if they had to).

Rose asks if I can help carry a heavy flower pot from the back deck to the sale. I’m enamored by her long braid and stylish cowgirl hat.

“You need to leave by 2 to pick your youngest up from school,” Sandy says.

“Umm, yes,” I say, wondering how she knows this.

“Did your older daughter pick up an extra shift at the restaurant?” she asks. “Otherwise, she would be here.”

“She’s taking a midterm and then she works this afternoon,” I explain.

“The online summer class,” Carolee says.

“Yes, that’s right,” I say, surprised again.

“And she likes Arizona?” Carolee asks. It’s a statement, not a question. “It must be nice to have her home for the summer. She’s a big help,” she adds.

Before I can respond, Diane motions me to follow her.

“This is all we set up. Your husband will be here early tomorrow to finish setting out the rest of the shop equipment,” Diane says.

“Yea, he’s been…,” I begin to explain.

“Busy at work,” she finishes for me. “He hasn’t had time to finish going through the back room, poor thing.”     

“Um, yeah, exactly,” I say and can’t help laughing. Their accuracy is uncanny.  

“People will be here before 9 am. Is he planning on coming up by 7?” Diane asks.

“I’m sure he is,” I say, then quickly text my husband.

LOL. Tell them I’ll be there early. How are things going? He texts back.

Your mom’s friends are running things like professionals. I’m not sure why I was asked to help out. There’s not much for me to do.

In fact, the most useful thing I do the entire day, a task designated to me when I first arrive that morning, is to drive into town at noon sharp and pick up the pre-ordered deli trays. It’s a quick ten-minute drive down the hill, but I am gently reminded to get going when 11:40 rolls around and I haven’t left.

“Are you texting your husband?” Diane asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you mind sending him pictures of these over here,” she says walking toward a table saw and other power tools.

“If we can price these items today, we should be able to sell them,” Carolee explains.

Authority Over the Dime

My mother-in-law sits at the cash box with her coffee mug and a calculator. She has a knack for wheeling and dealing through encouragement and light bargaining, but she doesn’t hesitate to give items away when it seems right.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she asks a couple looking at a wooden duck.  “You know, he is really supposed to be part of a set,” she says as if she has just revealed top-secret intel.

They look at her with curiosity.  

“There’s another one right over here,” she says, pointing to the table beside her. “They’re much cuter together,” she says as though the birds themselves are a couple. 

The people leave with both ducks. Naturally.

“Will you take $35 for these two?” one man asks.

“Oh, those are special,” she says.

“They’re very nice,” the man says considerately. He seems to relate to the challenge of parting with tangibles.

She explains that the iron log rack was handcrafted from a small store in Oregon, and the plant box was hand-painted by a friend.

They settle on $40.  

Her mail lady pulls up with a stack of mail I take into the house. She is excited that my mother-in-law will move into a retirement community.

“I worked at a retirement facility before I moved here. I loved that job. But, the city wasn’t safe for our kids, so we moved here last year,” she shares. “We were homeless for most of the year but just moved into a little house. We were willing to do anything so our kids could grow up here,” she explains with joy and hope that deeply moves me.

She spots two living room chairs and her eyes light up. “How much for both?”

Carolee walks with her over to the chairs. A few minutes later, she waves goodbye and drives away.

“Is she coming back for the chairs?” I ask.

“She’s hoping to come up with the money,” Carolee explains.

We’re all silent for a few seconds.

Then my mother-in-law says, “I’m giving her those chairs. She has been good to me, always walking my mail up to the door.”

We applaud her decision.

“The postmaster buys his vegetables from us,” Rose says. “I’ll call him now. He can tell her to stop by after work.”

The Charming Community  

Local people of all kinds come by. Some are in trucks with items already purchased at other garage sales. Others stop after noticing the signs and squeeze items spontaneously purchased into their small cars.

Most have something specific in mind. One woman, yarn and fabric for the crafts she sells at local events.  Another, a small table for a breakfast nook.

Each item has a history. My mother-in-law shares and people are genuinely interested. And each item has a new story: the reason the buyer wants it, where it will go, and how they will use it.

One man is looking for a workbench but leaves with a large wrought iron wall sculpture his wife will love. She has been looking for one just this size and he plans to hang it before she gets home from work.  

It becomes clear why parting with things can be hard. They represent our stories, our lives, our memories.

Most people know each other, but even the unfamiliar ones have a familiarity, a common charm, a shared warmth. Socializing is part of the whole experience and nobody is in a rush.

The young couple who pulls up in a lifted red truck asks if we have camping chairs. No, we respond.

“Okay, thank you! Good luck on your sale. Your property is beautiful. God bless!”

“God bless!” everyone responds and waves goodbye as they make their way down the driveway, country music blaring.

Bravery

“How are you feeling about all this?” I ask as the day wraps up.

“Well, it’s not easy,” she says. “I love this property. I’m going to miss it.”

“It will be nice to settle into your new place,” I say encouragingly.

I know I’m simplifying things in my attempt to stay positive. It isn’t just the house itself. It’s about leaving her community for a new city and new friends.

“I hope I’m making the right decision,” she says.

“What do you always tell us when we have to make a big decision? To trust,” I remind her.

“Yes, that’s what I say,” she says.

“Easier said than done when you’re the one doing the trusting,” I say.

“It sure is,” she says and we both laugh.