During our long cold winter, many of my fellow Midwesterners dream of escaping to a sunny Caribbean beach. Me, I fantasize about garage sale season.
Forget about seeing a robin—I know spring has arrived when I spy that first GARAGE SALE sign along the road. I immediately burst into action, preparing strategies for the new season as I ponder which neighborhoods to target first and what route is the most efficient to hit as many sales as possible. (If I had studied biology in college even half as intently as I now pore over my garage sale itineraries, I’m confident that I’d be a noted brain surgeon today.)
During the season, I’m out early. I used to be honest with my family about where I was going, gaily announcing that I was “off to find some treasures!” But once the bounty I hauled home began to pack our closets, basement and garage, everybody began to discourage my missions. I then resorted to mumbling “I’m going to the market,” before I fled, but that was discovered to be a lie when I never returned home with any groceries. (You’re probably asking “why didn’t you stop at the store when you finished with the sales?” That couldn’t happen because my car became so loaded down with “treasures”, there was no room to put the grocery bags.)
Once at a sale, I move around the merchandise silent as a cheetah watching his prey before the attack. I may not look athletic, but you haven’t seen me sprint across the yard to grab that hand-painted tray I’ve noticed another shopper also eyeing. Suddenly I’m poetry in motion—and that poem is:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I saw that first
So hands off, you!

Being a garage sale addict isn’t always easy. There was the awkward moment last summer when my husband opened my glove compartment for a map and instead found a collection of vintage hatpins. Sometimes I stop to sift through stuff spread out on a driveway, only to be shooed away by the irate homeowner who’s just cleaning out his garage. And I haven’t fulfilled the dream of every sale junkie--- to appear on Antiques Roadshow and hear the awestruck appraiser say that the knick-knack I bought for two dollars is really worth a hundred thousand. Then my daydream turns into sort of a beauty pageant as the antiques expert puts a glittering crown on my head, singing,” There she is, Miss Garage Sales!”
Others welcome the end of winter when they see their first tulip. I’ll celebrate spring’s arrival only after I’ve bought a vase for fifty cents at my neighbor’s yard sale to stick that tulip in.