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Back Porch
27
different, of his collection. For him, every coffee break is a new adventure, every new cup an additional aggravation for his already overworked wife who will wash it in sullen silence.
On another table the victim may find a record album featuring a once-beloved singer, unheard for ten years and deceased for twenty, along with an old radio which, when plugged in and vigorously shaken, still emits a respectable burst of static. On the ground nearby he may see a battered old canoe with one oar, still water worthy if not stylish, and still wet from yesterday’s voyage on the river.
Parked in the driveway, the sufferer beholds a genuine antique 1946 Plymouth roadster, standing resplendent in new paint and old glory. He probably cannot afford to buy the car, but he can look at it for free. Less expensive objects, in virtually endless array, may be purchased for a few dollars or a few cents and carried joyfully homeward.
For the RSM sufferer, though, the time inevitably comes when there is no longer adequate space at home to store any more acquisitions. When this problem becomes acute, some will sadly announce rummage sales of their own. But for the hard-core victim, such a practical course is unthinkable or thought to border upon madness. To offer up for sale these artifacts we have so lovingly accumulated would be an atrocity akin to throwing Aztec maidens down a well or firing off a pet frog in a slingshot.
We fanatics, who value so highly those items we bought for so little, are determined to stand fast, like trees in a storm which may scatter our leaves but cannot uproot us, and retain our treasures even if we must rent space elsewhere to store them. Such a firm resolve may in time, of course, lead neighbors (even spouses) to question or sanity, but even this is preferable to losing our cherished trivia.
We find some comfort in the knowledge that this illness, after Thanksgiving, will almost certainly begin to taper off or even go into total remission. Our hands will gradually recover from their covetous twitch, and our eyes will lose the avaricious gleam which has marked
us all summer. Like the bear, our affliction will hibernate through the winter months, and many will rejoice in the delusion that they have been miraculously healed. But in the spring, when the dormant germs burst forth again with renewed vigor, we—the victims of all this—shall once more be seen invading the neighborhoods of others, after we have plundered our own, with a tireless tenacity.
Even those holding rummage sales, if they can somehow manage to break free long enough, will join the jubilant safari toward other sales down the street. All manner of objects, identical to those they sold an hour before, will be carried triumphantly homeward to be ultimately thrown, by an infuriated spouse, over the back fence into the alley. This Rummage Sale Mania, once introduced into the bloodstream, remains there forever to tantalize and torment us.
No person is ever entirely secure against the onslaught of this virus, and sufferers range from infants in strollers to the elderly in wheelchairs. The fever consumes both the female and the male and crosses every racial, religious, cultural and economic boundary. Equally at risk are the prince, the pauper, and both their wives—everyone, in fact, who has ever marveled at beauty and loved a bargain.
Rummage Sale Mania rages on, even as I write, and the fierce hunt continues in the city streets and sooner or later down every quiet country lane. Its collective effect upon our society is nothing short of catastrophic. But in this delightful calamity which has so disrupted our schedules, cluttered our homes and devastated our budgets, there is at least one blessing.
Since medical treatment is pointless, not to mention inconvenient (the doctor is out there, right now, making an offer for that 1946 Plymouth which he covets severely), there are, for victims of RSM, no extra medical bills to pay. This leaves us, if we are frugal and discerning, with even more coins to spend at the next rummage sale!
-o-
A Garage Sale -Stop!
by Geri DiGiovanni
Someone else’s junk!
Yet I stop to look
and usually buy... something!
I place it in my yard,
Along with all my
other treasures
dotting my landscape.
A figure here,
a potted plant there.
An old, wooden toy truck that once tickled
a young man’s fancy
now holds a geranium.
An ugly little Gnome
guards the path
into my woods...
exacting discipline from all who enter “Do not disturb the wildlife!”
A little red wagon is my goal.
I have yet to find it.
But I will!
Oh, yes, I will.
If it takes until
the end of time;
I’ll find one...
somewhere.
A garage sale... Stop!!