garage sale gems

To set the scene: it is around 6:30am, Friday morning. I'm quite literally exhausted, asleep in my car in my grandmother's driveway, where I thought I could steal a few minutes of sleep while I waited for my first customer. I had been preparing for the garage sale to end all garage sales all week. I'm on this "minimalist kick," as my Dad so lovingly has labeled my life phase. I had prepared for the entire week--sorting, sifting, pricing, trashing, and reminiscing-- through every possession I've collected over my past 23 years of life. Yeah, that's a lot of stuff, you're right. Needless to say (even though I've actually already said it...), I was exhausted. But not for long...

Around a quarter to 7am, a gut-shaking rumble comes screeching down the street. I jump straight up, jerk around in my reclined seat, to catch a hazy gaze of my first customer. The rumble was coming from the dangling exhaust pipe of a circa 1980 Thunderbird (with T-tops). And when he parked just past the mailbox, the rumble didn't stop. He left the engine running, with the stereo blasting classic rock. The music matched the outfit, and gave him perfect theme music as he slithered through all of my considerably girly home decor, picture frames, and hand-painted bedroom furniture.

As he breached from the T-bird I knew I was in for a treat. His black, leather vest (with fringe) accented his bare cheast like the ruffled skirt on a plus-size baithing suit accents a pear-shaped figure. His flowing salt-and-pepper curls tumbled down his bare shoulders, well past his elbows, with a backwards hat most likely covering a receiding hair line and/or a sprawling bald spot in the crown region. Just making an educated guess from the context clues presented to me.

He hovered around the tables for several turns, picking up mainly electronics and cords and the tools my dad donated for the sale. Obviously a smoker from his pre-teens, he saluted me with a grumbly "Good mornin' girly. How's things?" ...such a familiar salutation, from such an unfamiliar figure... I told him he was my first customer, and, though his leathered face didn't show much of any expression, I could tell he was proud. After passing around some general niceties, I learned that "Smitty" did yard work for a living, but that he could pretty much do anything, at all...ever. Anything. He'd ovbviously peaked my interest such a bold statement. I had to know more...

Smitty then proceeded to explain to me how one would go about tearing down a tree, from the top down. I also learned various other yard-related tips and tricks. When I asked him about the duct tape around his tucked-into-socks pant legs, he explained that "the seed ticks were eatin' him alive down in the holler." Again, using my keen context clues, I drew the conclusion that he was working in a nearby holler, of sorts, tearing down trees. From the top, down.

The first of his many purchase decions, as he did stop by several more times throughout the next two days, was my dad's old stereo, dad's old ostrich skin cowboy boots, an electric keyboard, and my wet suit. I would love to see all of these purchases utilized simultaneously. I'm certain that with his old/new items, Smitty will be the envy on the banks of the Elk River, his current estate.

...if a picture's worth a thousand words, then Smitty left me speechless...