As if last weekend's sales weren't depressing enough, I found myself getting pre-depressed about the coming holiday weekend. July 4 falls on Sunday, which would not prevent anyone from having a sale on Friday or Saturday, which of course won't happen. Apparently most people feel that holidays have to be at least three days long. Apparently I'm not one of them. Back to last weekend, though, when I went to a farmhouse sale and was left to wonder: How could anyone live someplace 85 years and leave only five things I wanted? And five pretty ho-hum things at that: one key, one ledger book, one folding ruler, one tape measure and one bib apron.
Then I went to what was once one of my favorite church rummage sales, which I knew would be better than last year's sale, because last year some poor man collapsed and died in the parking lot. (I didn't mention this last year. It was, to say the least, tragic.) This year's sale was a lot better, in that as far as I'm aware everyone survived. Merchandise-wise, though, nothing spectacular: a Jadite bowl and three pretty glasses.
The table also came from the rummage sale. The church ladies charge more for furniture; this was $1. In addition to being cheap, the table looked as if it could provide valuable storage. "Look at all that horizontal space," one woman at the sale said appreciatively, and I felt she was a kindred spirit. The weekend sales also brought four light-up snowmen . . .
as well as some tinsel and tiny ornaments for the coming wreath-making season. And that was it. And as I was glumly cataloging and photographing my finds, I thought I probably need a holiday weekend. As Samuel Johnson observed, "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." If a 10-cent Jadite bowl no longer makes my heart race, and when the best I have to say about a sale is that nobody died, I need a break from going to sales. A nice summer weekend of garden-gazing and porch-sitting and pie-eating seems like just the ticket, and so that's what I'm going to do.