That’s what successful garage sailors scream from the bough of their ship on their return voyage, while defending their bounty from mutinous shipmates.
I almost didn’t go garage sailing today. I was tired, The Boy had the car, we already have enough stuff, I’m trying to pack & purge not buy more, we’re poor… but I ended up going anyway. I had to. It’s a sickness.
I only went to two, we were pretty late when I could resist the sultry siren calls no longer, the first was more like a “potting shed” sale, and was a little too picked over; one glance at the lidless Tupperware on the foldaway card table and I knew we were too late. The second was a Mecca of all that is good about garage sales.
We wandered around the back, Le Punk & I, admiring such treasures as a $10 laminex kitchen table (if I’d had a ute, we would now own 2 laminate kitchen tables and have nowhere to put either) & 70s bar utensils, when we were encouraged to head inside too. The woman that lived in the house was headed to an aged care home & her family were tidying up. I’ve only ever been to one similar sale, in the Blue Mountains, an estate sale where there was stuff stacked upon stuff in a tiny little house, and I was oddly fascinated by the whole thing.
It’s rather strange & a little unsettling to walk into a house, somebody’s home, and be able to buy whatever you see there. Everything had a price sticker, or “Make an offer” scrawled on it in red marker.
In the kitchen I saw a Breville Professional Juicer for $20 & had to have it. It was exactly the same as the juicer The Boy bought me once that I didn’t want at all, but I hadn’t been turned on to the joys of orange, carrot & ginger juice then, so he gave it to his mother after it sat unused in the cupboard for a year or so. To his credit, he wasn’t as annoyed as I thought he’d be when I revealed I’d bought another, probably because I already had a tall glass of delicious fresh juice waiting for him.
In the hallway there was a huge box of fabric, different kinds separated into little plastic bags & neatly labelled, the box said “Make an offer per bag” so I asked the lady how much she wanted for the whole box, obviously her mother’s modest stash, and she said “Make me an offer”. I had no idea, I was thinking $20 but then I was thinking “No, she won’t take that…” so all I said was “I would but I don’t think it would be enough!”, she looked at the box again & asked “Would $10 be too unreasonable?”.
No.
$10 would be very reasonable. Thank you.
After getting my treasures & The Punk home, I sorted through the fabric (lots of knit & rib, will have to become better acquainted with my overlocker eventually) and did some washing up, all the while thinking “I didn’t look at everything! I was so excited by the fabric I forgot about everything else!”, so, as tragic as I know this sounds, I went back.
Punk stayed with The Boy’s little bro while I dashed over again (I also had to get oranges for juicing… so… like… I’m not THAT bad….) to have another look.
The family were so lovely, asking where Le Punk was & how old she was, the guy outside showed me an ice-cream container full of old rubber & wood mounted stamps. The price tag said $8 but he said he’d give them to me for $2. He said that his brother inside had told him “You’ll never get $8 for those!” so if they asked me I had to say I paid $8, just to prove him right (nobody asked, mores the pity). I also got a recipe book stand/holder (That’s what I’m calling it anywho, but I’m pretty sure it used to hold a bible…) for 20 cents, but latent guilt about my fabric stash steal saw me force $1 upon the sweet lady instead.
Experiences like this do nothing to help my addiction.
I am doomed.
