A few days ago I received an invitation to take part in a yard sale in my neighborhood. To be honest, I’m not even considering participating.

It’s not that I don’t have anything to sell. In fact, I’m actually at the point where I’m afraid to open any of my closet doors because I’m in danger of being knocked unconscious by falling boxes, canned goods, stacks of books or assorted bric-a-brac (and believe me, the pointy ones really hurt).

The difficult part is deciding which “treasures” to part with and which to keep. Even worse is deciding how to price them.

“How much should I ask for these solid-gold earrings?” I once asked my husband as I was pricing items for a yard sale at my church.

“Two bucks,” he answered.

A few minutes later he handed me a pair of his old work-boots. “I think you can get at least $50 for these,” he said.

I laughed. “Fifty dollars? Any poor guy who buys them will have to walk bowlegged, the
heels are so worn out on the sides.”

One thing experience has taught me is that people who sell items at yard sales have to have the patience of a saint. Unfortunately, I don’t. After an hour of manning a table, I’m ready to leave...without taking any of my stuff with me.

The last yard sale I took part in at a local park really tried my patience. It began at 8 a.m., so I arrived at the crack of dawn to set up. I opened the trunk of my car, which was packed with
boxes, and carried one of the boxes over to my table. When I returned to my car, I found two
women with their heads in my trunk.

“How much for this?” one of the women asked, holding up a portable cassette-player.

“Five dollars,” I said.

“I’ll give you $1.50 for it,” she said.

“Sorry, ma’am,” I said. “I haven’t even set up yet, so it’s a little too early to start marking things down.”

“What’re you asking for this?” the other woman interrupted.

“That’s my tire iron!” I couldn’t help but snap. “Please put it back in the trunk!”

“Boy, what a grouch!” the two of them grumbled as they walked off.

Despite the interruptions, I managed to get everything set up just before the sale began. Within 15 minutes, the piles of clothes I’d so carefully laid out on the table looked as if a helicopter had just hovered over them. And the two perfectly symmetrical rows of salt and pepper shakers were knocked down faster than bowling pins at a tournament.

I made certain, however, that no one mishandled my most prized possession – an original Star Wars Princess Leia doll. I put a price tag of $150 on it, which was substantially less than its market value of about $350 at that time.

An elderly woman scooped it up almost immediately. “I’ll take this!” she said, smiling. “My grandson will be so thrilled!” She then proceeded to hand me $1.50.

“Um, it’s 150,” I told her, “not a dollar 50.”

“Hmph!” she grunted, shoving the doll at me. “You should make your decimal points bigger!”

My worst disaster, however, occurred a few years ago at an arts-and-crafts sale at that same park. Prior to the sale, I’d spent weeks painstakingly making hundreds of little tile magnets with people’s names, hearts and leaves painted on them. I then arranged them in alphabetical order on huge pieces of sheet-metal.

The day of the event, I held my breath as I carefully slid the sheets of magnets into my car. I then took the longest route to the park so I could avoid any bumpy or hilly roads that might
jostle my precious cargo. When I reached the park, I carried each sheet of magnets over to my site and gently stood them up, leaning them back against three sawhorses. Finally, I allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief.

The magnets immediately drew a crowd of people, all searching for specific names.

“You don’t have a magnet with the name Rasputin on it?” one lady asked in a tone that told me she actually had expected to find one.

“Sorry, no,” I told her.

“How about Desdemona?” another asked.

Still, despite the frenzy, everything went smoothly…until a little boy who looked about five became impatient.

“Mommy!” he whined, stomping his foot on the grass. “I want to see if my name is on one of those “maggots” over there!”

“Then go look!” his mother said, not even glancing at him as she sifted through a stack of crocheted potholders at a nearby table.

“I caaaaan’t!!” he whined even louder. “The people standing in front of them are taller than me!”

“Oh, stop your whining and behave!” his mother snapped.

Furious, the boy suddenly transformed into Damien, the devil’s spawn from the movie The Omen. Tiny horns sprouted out of his forehead, and his eyes narrowed into tiny yellow slits. He ran behind one of the sawhorses and gave a sheet of magnets a mighty shove. Not wanting to be flattened, the customers jumped back instead of trying to save the sheet, and the magnets all landed face-down in the grass, which still was wet with dew. The names and hearts I’d so carefully painted on them were transformed into something that resembled psychedelic tie-dye.

Even Houdini couldn’t have made the boy and his mother vanish more quickly (probably
because she was afraid I’d try to make her pay for the damages).

By the end of the day, I’d managed to amass a grand total of $56.25 for all of my hard work. I rushed over to a table where I’d seen a beautiful handmade doll I really wanted for my doll collection.

“How much for that doll?” I asked the man as he was packing away the last of his leftover
merchandise.

“Oh, that’s a family heirloom,” he said. “My great-grandmother made it from cotton and wool she spun herself, and she crocheted all of the hairpin lace on the gown. I couldn’t possibly take a penny less than $175 for it.”

“Oh,” I said, sighing. “I have only $56.25.”

“Sold!”

So I came home with no cash at all, plus I’d spent $15 for the table space.

But I did buy a beautiful doll...which currently is buried somewhere in one of my overstuffed closets.

I’m sure I’ll find her one of these days, however...when I open a closet door and she falls out and conks me on the head.

Sally Breslin is an award-winning humor columnist and the author of There’s a Tick in my Underwear! Contact her at: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. .

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