It has occurred to me that the secret to having a successful garage sale is to not have one.
Thirty years ago, we hosted one at our home in Los Angeles in preparation for our move to Montana. Last weekend, I attended one my daughter and her husband were hosting.
That’s a vast span in which to have a complete understanding of the culture and practice of garage sales.
I was also able to access information offered by the National Association of Garage Sale Enthusiasts, a little-known division of the federal government’s Department of Economics, Business and Other Things. It’s overseen by the EPA and administered by the IRS, the latter of which has more than 26,000 agents trying to collect taxes from people wanting a little cash in exchange for their junk.
Garage sales have an interesting history dating back to ancient Egypt, where they were known as لِتَصْليح السَّيارات. Most of the people who died in those times had their most precious belongings buried with them…things like a favorite hashish pipe or a medal of valor. The rest of the stuff—like cookware and shards of broken pottery—was hawked by greedy relatives on the major boulevards of cities and towns that most of us can’t pronounce.
The typical Egyptian had a great sense of humor, which is not widely known. Typically, the dead relative was mummified and placed in one of the not-so-great pyramids in suburban neighborhoods, while the garage sale leftovers were scattered hither and yon for 20th-Century archeologists to discover and make up stories about how others once might have lived.
In reverential respect for our Arab forebearers—although, being Jewish, this is a stretch—our garage sale in 1991 provided tables full of crap we no longer wanted, needed, or didn’t want to transport 1,200 miles. And to be completely accurate, it was a driveway sale, considering that our garage was packed with precious belongings we were bringing to our new home.
In that driveway, we had on display hundreds of things for which we had no use—and certainly didn’t want to move.
The preparation for a yard/driveway/garage sale involves weeks of separating useful stuff, wanted stuff, unwanted stuff, and garbage. Then you spend an entire day moving the assorted stuffs to tables and arranging it in little displays that would rival a Walmart display of its crap.
When then opening hour of 9 a.m. arrives, you’ve already hosted 19 people who are confused about clocks. Seven a.m. is not the same as 9 a.m., and yes, I understand the urgency behind hoping that the 1973 June edition of Playboy missing from your collection might be hidden amongst the porcelain creamers in the shapes of cows.
In Los Angeles, garage sale attendees came in parties of fourteen people packed into a single car. They unloaded like a circus act of clowns. Most seemed interested in buying back-to-school clothing for children who weren’t in the car. Then there were the two ladies who pulled up in a Rolls Royce, poked around things for a few minutes and proceeded to steal a toy telescope my daughter was hoping to sell for a dollar.
Maybe that’s how one must live to afford driving a Rolls.
Last weekend, which apparently was a bad weekend to have a garage sale because it was a holiday, I happened to make some rather astute observations. One woman asked me if I was in charge of the sale, to which I answered that I was mere “eye candy.” She moved away from me quickly.
Men who came by themselves seemed mostly interested in tools or decorative stuff for what would only have been appropriate for the proverbial “man cave.” Men who were accompanied by a significant other seemed to be there against their will. Women who arrived solo were efficient and fast, rifling through things with knowing eyes for bargains.
Obesity seemed a common thread, as did the propensity of really nice cars. Perhaps buying other people’s soon-to-be-refuse is the secret to affording a late-model Subaru.
All garage sales end the same. Whatever doesn’t sell gets loaded into a truck and driven to a thrift store or a green box for disposal. Not all of one man’s trash is found to be another’s treasure. In the end, it’s junk.
But the host of these sales has toiled long and diligently to disperse once-cherished items for redistribution to a community desperately in need of more stuff.
By the way, the average American garage sale nets the host(s) about $83 or, to put it more succinctly, about $1.37 an hour.
Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska
Shrimp Creole
3 Tbs. butter
1 small onion, chopped
1 green bell pepper, chopped
2 ribs celery, chopped
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp. paprika
2 tsp. dried thyme
2 tsp. dried oregano
1 tsp. cayenne
1 1/2 c. chicken stock
2 bay leaves
1 (15-oz.) can whole tomatoes, crushed
2 green onions, thinly sliced, plus more for garnish
2 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
Juice of 1/2 lemon
1 tbsp. vegetable oil
1 1/2 lb. shrimp, peeled and deveined
Cooked white rice, for serving
In a large skillet over medium heat, melt butter. Add onion, pepper, and celery and cook until soft, 5 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Add garlic, paprika, thyme, oregano, and cayenne and cook until fragrant, 1 to 2 minutes more. Add chicken broth and bay leaf and bring to a boil. Lower to a simmer and cook until reduced by about 1/4, 6 to 8 minutes.
Add tomatoes and cook until reduced by half, about 10 minutes. Add green onions and Worcestershire sauce and cook until thickened, about 10 minutes more. Season again with salt and pepper if needed, then turn off heat and stir in lemon juice.
In a separate large skillet, heat oil. Add shrimp and cook until pink and opaque, about 2 minutes per side. Season with salt and pepper, then add prepared sauce to shrimp. Garnish with green onions and serve with rice.