My family loves to sale – yard, garage and estate. Countless times I’ve almost suffered whiplash as my father made an abrupt turn after spotting a small sign marked “sale” with an arrow. He wends through neighborhoods just to see if there is some treasure he can’t do without. An odd behavior considering the fact that there is nothing he needs. My sister arms herself with an inhaler to survive digging through boxes in attics and basements in search of Christmas past – one of the largest collections of which can be found at her house. My extended family spends hours regaling one another with tales of magnificent finds and bargaining skills the envy of any Middle Easterner.

Fortunately this gene seems to have skipped me. Occasionally, I go along for the ride. For the most part garage and yard sales strike me as places where people display their junk in hope of getting a little cash before making a charitable donation. These people no longer want the items for sale, yet they need to tell one more unsuspecting sole the story behind it to establish its value at $10 instead of just $5. My family members will still ask for $5. Most of the time they get the discount and more.

Estate sales are just creepy. I can’t help but think of the story behind the owner. How odd to suddenly have all the nooks and crannies of one’s life exposed. Typically, everything in the house is for sale. Cupboards are open. You can get ¾ of a can of Raid, canned goods, a full set of vintage china or start a collection by buying someone else’s collection. Once we happened upon binders containing a collection of sugar packets from restaurants. They were carefully organized in plastic sheets to reveal both sides. One side read, “sugar” while the other side of the packet stated the restaurant name, like “Shoney’s.” Someone spent a lot of time accumulating and organizing that collection. What was this person’s story?

I don’t collect anything. At times I amass items but seem to have no problem letting them go, mostly without even bothering with a sale of my own. It’s a recessive gene that makes me a freak in a family whose members collect collections. I will never make a good saler. Fortunately, my loved ones are able to overlook this flaw.