I’m including things from my mother’s house in our garage sale. My sister has been loading the unwanted things and I’ve been hauling them home to sort and price.
It’s something of an adventure. Shaking my head at the things my mother saved (9,000 margarine containers?) and the things that were separated from their original place (the chain lock from our camping trailer?). Then there’s the things that were mine: toys, flash cards, and puzzles. Things I haven’t seen in so long I’d forgotten they existed until spying them in the bottom of a dusty box. Sometimes I pull them out, wipe them off and toss them in my kids’ toybox. Others I laugh to myself and slap a sticker on them.
The hardest things to look at are my dad’s. The things that are truly special to our family – his war memorabilia, his writings, etc. – have been saved, but these are the everyday objects that I don’t remember until I see them. Then a picture flashes in my mind of my dad using them. The bottle of Old Spice cologne. The shoe horn that sat on the end table beside his bed. His hats – the ones that farmers wear with mesh on the back that sit stiffly on the top of your head until broken in (few of my dad’s hats have this stiff quality anymore).
Then it’s hard to reach for the price tags. How do you price something like that? Worthless to everyone else but so full of memories.