“It’s the second day of an estate sale on Old Taos Highway!” R. called out to me. She was in her office checking listings of estate and yard sales on line, and loves going to these events. It was Sunday morning and I was just coming back to cognition with my first cup of tea. R. scooted into the living room in her PJs. “Everything will be half price! Wanna go?” When she asked, the wild gleam in her eyes told me my options were limited.
I’d never been to an estate sale but I have been to a yard sale. Or two. In my life. Someone else’s dusty old junk, kind of depressing all piled up, and I manage to keep my life fairly simple by not buying things I don’t need. But, “Mind is like parachute Grasshopper,” popped into my head, “function only when open.” So I looked at her, raised my eyebrows and said, “Sure, I’m game.” R. was completely tickled – this alone would make whatever the experience might be more than worth it. So we got dressed, went out for a coffee and croissant and thus fortified put ourselves hot on the trail. I navigated, and the extra jolt of caffeine helped hold any remaining skepticism at bay.
. . .
Last summer, my neighbor C. went to Germany on business and I cat sat for her. One evening after she returned, I was walking back from getting the mail and saw her sitting at a little outdoor table on the hill behind her place. I hiked cross country up the hill. “Welcome home neighbor!” I called.
C. suggested I have a seat and a glass of wine with her. We always have good conversation so I was happy to accept. “Oh! I have something for you.” She said as she went into the house for a glass. She came out with a small parcel, layers of packing paper and adhesive tape. “Here, and thanks for looking after Spec.” I unwrapped the package, and there was a wine glass.
“Wow, thanks, C.!” I said. She had no idea I have a thing for glass so it was an extra special surprise. “It’s really cool… I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“This is typical of the glass you’d get in most any restaurant in Germany if you ordered wine.” She said. “It’s every day, utilitarian.”
I was thrilled. We filled it up and shared news and thoughts and watched the sun go down. It was a fine spontaneous time with a great neighbor and friend, out here in the ‘hood. When I got home, I washed the glass and put it in an open spot so I could admire it. But it looked lonely sitting there on it’s own… I might have been anthropomorphizing a little bit. I wondered, “where would I ever find one like it?”
. . .
There were a half dozen or so vehicles parked on the street. This must be the place. R. and I got out of the car and clamored up the steep driveway. Men, dazed, were sitting in lawn chairs. Others were lugging pieces of furniture out the side door, taking care not to trip or smash into things. Inside, the happy energy of a feeding frenzy took the edge off the fact we were tearing apart some now deceased person’s former home. But here we go, what the heck, R. and I scoped out the place. It was pretty well cleaned out, but clerks in red aprons let us know at every turn things were half the marked price.
We wandered into the dining room and there in a built in glass front cabinet, among other odds and ends of china and glass were four, count’em, four of the wine glasses. “No way!” I exclaimed.
R. was busy looking at china and turned to me. “What’s that?”
“These glasses…” I picked one up and examined it and told her about the one C. gave me. The sticker was marked, “$8.” I picked up another, the sticker was the same.
“We’ll take four for those.” One of the clerks said in a perfunctory tone, then added, “Each.” She’d been at this since Friday and probably her feet hurt and she wanted to go home. Not to be too interested I set the glass down and wandered around with R., all the while hoping no one else was whisking them away. Unable to stand it any longer, I went back to the dining room. They were still there.
“I’ll go $12 for the set.” I said to the clerk. Hey, I almost would have paid thirty two, but this is part of the game.
“Nope.”
I looked at her. Nothing about her indicated she would budge so I said, “Ok, sixteen for the set.” She gave only the slightest hint of a smile and directed me to the table out back where I could pay for them.
For the rest of the day, I was like a kid who had found buried treasure. R. shared in the excitement. She knew in a sense, I had. Back at her place we washed the glasses and held them up in the late afternoon sun streaming into the kitchen. The grape motif glowed and the stems flickered. We filled two with a good oaky Chardonnay - maybe it should have been a Riesling or Liebfraumilch, but oh well - and toasted, ”לחיים! לחיים!” (“To Life! To Life!”) They are beautiful in a Germanic way, they feel sturdy in the hand.
Gordon Bunker
