I’ve been making messes all over the house as I work to clear out accumulation that happens without much effort. Almost everything deemed unnecessary goes to Goodwill, but there were some items that fit more in the antique store category. I’ve found myself in this place before, where I’d be happy to give my stuff to the local antique merchants just to encourage their business. On two different occasions in the past two years at two different downtown stores I’ve asked the owner to come out to my loaded car to look at my treasures for what they might find marketable. Each time they wanted to know how much I was asking. Each time I replied, “Just give me a really low number.” Finally they said something like $20 or $30 and I would bid them down, happily walking away with $10 or $15 in my pocket and leaving them with a story to tell when they got home from work.
Yesterday I pulled into the parking lot of a third local antique store, went inside, talked to the owner, and convinced her to come look at my stuff. She looked through a basket of small items (only one with any sentimental value to me) not very interested (since her store is already crammed with similar items) while I pulled a wooden music stand and a wooden high chair and an old fire extinguisher out of the car. I started with: “I’ll give you all that stuff if you’ll consider a really low price like $20 for these items. “OK, how about $40?” she answered.
We settled on $30, as we both chuckled at the reversal of our bargaining roles. And I hope she makes a bundle on our business dealings.
But there these well-worn Farberware pans waiting by the stairs. Why is it so hard to part with them? They were a wedding gift to Paul and me more than 50 years ago, used by Mauri and me the past 24 years until I scored a set of Calphalon Classic at the church garage sale last year.
Maybe this has something to do with my reticence . . .
Cassidy, now 15 years old.
Oscar, turns 10 tomorrow.
Sage will be 8 in a few weeks.
And these darlings who visited just a few months ago.
Maybe I can fill them with dirt and grow tomatoes. Maybe the Calphalons will fall apart and I’ll call on these faithful pans again. Maybe they’ll be useful if the roof springs a leak. Maybe you can help me justify keeping them handy “for a rainy day.”