“Look, Howard, would you like this?” I asked my husband at the estate sale yesterday as I pointed to a cast iron cornbread muffin mold. He is always asking me about the one we have that is shaped like little ears of corn, and I can’t find it. “It’s only 75 cents,” I said as I pointed to the tag. We added it to our handful of items, then put it with them in “our” box under the cashier table while we finished shopping. Later, as we drove home, I remarked, “I didn’t think we had spent that much,” of the total on our tab at the checkout.
He told me to add the items up, even though we were sure we hadn’t been overcharged at the always-reputable enterprise. “Oh!” I exclaimed, when I examined the still-attached price tags, “The cornbread mold was $7.00, not 75 cents!” That’s what I get for not wearing my glasses! And for talking and not paying attention when we paid! If I had thought about it, I would have known that was too little for something some consider to be a collector’s item, but I was beguiled by my bargain!
We saw another sale we couldn’t pass up, down an ordinary street that turned out to lead to a charming, picturesque setting. We’d never explored this neighborhood before (that’s one of the charms of garage sales--seeing new areas). A little bridge over a stream bed led to a cozy, wood-shingled house perched on a small hillock. Beside the driveway was a little tree-shaded alcove tucked into a curve of a board fence, furnished with a wrought iron bench, some statuary, a Gone Fishin’ sign and other interesting items that seemed to have been lovingly collected and placed in this sanctuary-like spot.
On the other side leading to an entrance was the biggest, black iron pot I had ever seen suspended on a stand to hold flowers. I loved their taste, and couldn’t help feeling a twinge of envy. It just looked so homey my heart identified with it longingly. Howard spoke to the man sitting on a padded lawn swing in front of the open garage, behind some beautiful living room furniture for sale. “Looks like you have the best seat in the house!” he remarked genially.
The man began telling us that his daughters were having the sale, changing everything to make him comfortable. He went on to say he had lost his wife a few months ago, and his son had died not long before that. “How long were you married?” I asked him, to which he responded, “Fifty-four years.” I felt a pang. We’ve been married almost 53 years. I realized I should count my blessings and be thankful for my life. We don’t have a lot materially to show for our long marriage, but we have the things that matter most: God, love and family. In more ways than one, things are not always what they seem--a realization that was probably the best thing I brought home from the sales that day.
No comments:
Post a Comment