The signs are all a lie, according to my husband. “Shit for sale!” he announces every spring, gesturing darkly to the hand-lettered signs. “Not enough crap of your own? Come buy ours!” When we drive by he adopts the persona of a soldier skirting hostile territory – eyes fixed straight ahead, not a break in speed. “We don’t need any more shit,” he’ll announce with satisfaction once we’re past the danger zone.

I don’t share his deep suspicion of yard sales. Theoretically, I like them. I have happy memories of a neighborhood-wide yard sale, when my Mom pocketed over $100 and my grandfather scrawled, “Lincoln slept here!” next to the price tag on a shabby sofa. So when our child announced “I want to have a yard sale!” this summer, you can guess which parent reacted with deathly silence and which one offered a hopeful “Okay – let’s think about that!”

Now don’t get me wrong – I tried to work her out of it. “You’ve got to go through your stuff and decide what to sell!” I announced, depositing empty Rubbermaid bins at her feet. “Okay!” She replied, and over the next few weeks the bins filled up.

Humph. Strike one. “Maybe,” I offered hopefully, “maybe we could donate all these wonderful things (“shit she hasn’t touched in years” mumbled my husband) to the kitty cat store, and they can sell them to help animals.” (That would be our wonderful neighborhood thrift store, Second Life.)

The yard sale proprietor shook her head. “But if we have our own sale, we can give money to the animals ourselves.” 

Strike two. “Okay,” I told her, trying to look on the bright side. At least we’d pass some long-neglected toys onto other children. “We’ll get some shit out of our house, you mean?” My husband offered helpfully. 

“That too,” I told him, as I tossed a bathmat into the bin.

The morning of the sale, I held onto hope that we might not have to do this after all. That hope was snuffed out when I told the proprietor that she had to make the brownies herself, and she went off to get the measuring cups without so much as rolling her eyes. Dammit. The sale was on. 

“Sucks for you, hon,” said my husband as he left for work. Or maybe he said, “Good luck to you, hon.” I was too busy measuring powdered lemonade and stressing about where we were going to get pricing stickers to pay attention to anything besides the shipwreck that was happening despite my best discouragement efforts. 

Husband left, child went outside to set up, and I was left in the kitchen wrestling with the now-full Rubbermaid bins. A text rolled in from my daughter’s surrogate grandma – “Great idea! Mind if I bring over some things to sell?” “Nooooo!” screamed my subconscious. “Sure, bring them on over!” my fingers texted back. I mean, if you know you’re destined for disaster, might as well be neighborly about it, no?

I was in a dark, overwhelmed place as I stumbled down the basement stairs in search of now-full bins. I can’t believe I have to do this on a weekend, moaned my inner monologue. Bump, bump, bump, went the bin full of books up the basement stairs, and in my head, I heard my husband delivering his yard sale tirade to the beat it made. “Need…..more…..shit?….Come….buy….ours!” I started laughing out loud, imagining the ultimatum I’d give him later. Clearly, my brain was in a precarious state. Clearly, I was not capable of being the only adult on deck at a yard sale. Except this one, which according to my social media advertising started 10 minutes ago. I was out of excuses and out of time. So, lugging a bin behind me, outside I went. 

“Customers!” screamed my daughter. I blinked in the sweltering afternoon sun and sure enough, there they were – appearing like the Magi, the three wise women of the neighborhood. Our sweet neighbor, her mother and mother-in-law walked among our folding tables as if they were perusing a sale at Saks. They landed on the honeybee themed placemats and topped them off with brownies, lemonade, and neighborly conversation as we stood there organizing inventory. Fifteen minutes later, they strolled off, leaving us, or at least me, with new energy for project yard sale. Someone cared enough to show up.

They kept trickling in all afternoon. The father with his two children, who left with an armful of toys for Daddy’s house. The young woman who walked down the block in search of two cups of lemonade. The neighbors who swung by in their antique car and left with a toolbox to take to their next car show. The next-door neighbor who had to pull his hungry dog away from the brownies while he flipped through picture frames. The couple on the corner, who chose to pay triple price for their treats before walking away hand-in-hand. The conversation was the best kind of neighborly catch-up, how ARE you, asked in a way that you know someone is listening to the answer. It was the kind of conversation we don’t have enough, in the hurry-hurry-hurry go of every day. It was the kind of conversation I used to have with Lisa.

Proceeds from the sale, after the proprietor took her $20 cut, will go to the Initiative for Affordable Housing in honor of our friend and neighbor Lisa, who died quietly and unexpectedly the week before. Lisa, who undoubtedly would not have whined about holding a yard sale the way I had all week. I tried to think of a way to do this blog better in her honor, the wise, kind, salt-of-the-earth professional woman who I used to trade career crib notes with as she walked her dogs. Lisa, who could startle me to my senses with the spot-on clarity of her observations, who offered me a job when she sensed I was getting desperate after having been pink slipped in the pandemic. Lisa who somehow seemed to see me, my husband, and our daughter so clearly, catching us in the off-and-on flashes like a neighbor of many years does. But I can picture her waving my grandiose attempts at tribute away with one hand, her focus already moving onto the next work to be done. 

So I will only say – we are so bloody lucky to be able to hold a yard sale at all. Lucky to be here on earth, lucky to have a house to empty, lucky to have a community that showed up for us. Lucky to have known her.

I can hear my husband say, “Community’s great. I’m all about community. I just don’t want any more shit.” 

To which I say, fair point. Have some brownies and lemonade. Or, just contribute to the Initiative.