Junk Jivin'

I've had a week of slams from Ann Coulter followers.....and opened up my family saga to complete strangers, so I thought I'd break for something lighter. This time, I'll expose my husband's family quirks.

My husband's family is the Master of Yard Sales. The Junkin' Giants. They know how to find a good deal, and how to turn some one's useless throwaway into a treasured gem. I don't know how they have the knack for doing it, but they do. It's a badge of honor to find a good deal and brag about it. And I'm not talking about tacky stuff. I mean good stuff. 1950's patio furniture by the side of the road with a "Free " sign attached. Old cars. Bikes. Antique furniture. A barn full of old beauty salon equipment. If it's broken, they fix it. If they can't use it, they'll give it to someone who can.

They don't do this because they can't afford to buy nice things. They do it....well...they do it because they can.

Family gatherings in their upstate NY hometown always include an afternoon of what they call 'Junkin'. We all hop in cars and set out to find the best deals at the local second hand shops, antiques stores, and yard sales. The first time I went on one of these excursions, I followed his sisters around....picking up tips....learning the trade. I learned that you dig through the stuff that no one else wants. That's where you find the gem....something that was overlooked. Something you can tell others later on "I got it for two bucks!"

One of the last Junkin' excursions before my mother-in-law died was one I will remember the most. My husband was driving the car, with his mother in front with him, and his two sisters in the back seat with me. We were heading down 15th Street on our way to the highway, when the two sisters shouted out in unison "Stop the car! There's a yard sale!" We stopped in front of a white house with chairs, tables, and a sofa on the lawn. My in-laws scanned the yard and then spotted the boxes on the porch. That's it! That's the good stuff. The five of us pulled clothes and other items out of the boxes, oohing and aahing our finds. After about 10 minutes a man appeared at the door. "How much is this?" my 80 year-old mother-in-law asked, as she held up a cashmere sweater. The man eyed each one of us slowly. "This isn't a yard sale" he said. "I'm just moving in".