Estate Sales: Exposed!

Take a look at my profile. I am “relentless at estate sales.”

What does that mean? Well, once I had a spat with a mature woman as we both grabbed for an acorn-shaped fur hat. Triumphant, every once in a while I take it out of my closet and imagine wearing it while making a snowman with Ryan O’Neal. But what about something different? Last weekend, I had an experience that, while psychologically damaging, qualifies my attraction to estate sales…

I was in Salem, Oregon, visiting my best friend Sarah, who attends Willamette University. We have style; we love vintage.

After a Saturday successfully spent at a quirky vintage shop and bonding with kittens at Salem Friends of Felines, we were driving home. We turned on a picturesque street, bordered by the “not as sketchy” quadrant of Salem’s Bush Park. On the corner, a little yellow yard sign announced a distraction: Estate Sale. We followed.

Down the street. Around the park. There. A little house, some tents in the drive way, estate services professionals taking money and accessing “best offers.” The tables in the driveway presented a spread of telling goods: Black and white photographs, costume jewelry, newspapers, bold floral linens. My eyes were darting, blood pumping, fingers twitching. This house had belonged to old people.

We took the side entrance, from the carport into the house, ready to rifle through the lifetime accumulation of strangers. Sarah went ahead of me, up the stairs, to the right. Following, my eyes scanned for treasures: gold brocade club chair, blush-colored serving dishes. A man to my left absentmindedly fondled tchotchkes in a curio. My eyes continued tracking the scene: from the chairs to the wall hangings, to tchotchke guy.

When my eyes reassessed tchotchke guy, I discovered that his ardor for Estate Sales was far more literal than mine. Pants unbuttoned, he was exposed!

My Estate Sale goal index was reset. I prepared to bolt.

Sarah moved forward and away from the entrance, continuing to the back of the house. I went left, up a small flight of stairs. So violated. Like the vapid heroine of a horror film, I chastised myself for going upstairs, delving deeper into the house, further entrapping myself with the tchotchke fondler.

I backed down the stairs and proceeded through the circuit-style floor plan of the house, through a bedroom that smelled like baby powder and featured a stripped Tempur-Pedic adjustable bed, and into a well lit kitchen with a yellow Formica table. Where was he? Where was Sarah? Had she seen it too?! No, no. Surely we’d have left immediately. We should go. This is disturbing. Oooh? Is that a rack of vintage?

In a matter of moments, I was reunited with Sarah who was holding a brown suede coat with fur collar, suitable for any fashion plate, from Catherine Deneuve to Ruth Gordon. The discovery of this coat and subsequent discoveries restructured my experience of the Estate Sale. I don’t know where he went, but I never saw the fondler again. Emboldened by the suede coat, I went to the racks of clothes on the patio, hunting for vintage.

In addition to an intimate view of a stranger, I gleaned much from this sale: the suede coat (Sarah already has a matching one), plaid coatdress, blue knit dress, green velvet dress, black wool dress, green suede gloves. Surprisingly, the gloves were my most expensive purchase: $6, compared with $2 for each dress or coat. They all feature some wrinkles, some dirt, some minor need for repair, but are solidly constructed.


My new fall wardrobe. Wool, velvet, knit, fur: Autumn's timeless textures. Sure, a little shabby, but they'll clean up nicely.
Like this entry, my blog will be about yard sales, second hand shops, consignment, vintage. …I like the history of it all. Maybe she wore that wool dress to an awards luncheon. Maybe that table lamp was an engagement present. Maybe that ceramic cat was just fondled by an exposed stranger.

This content kitty is actually from the thrift shop at Salem Friends of Felines.
She shows no signs of abuse.