I don’t do yard sales. Too much work. And I’d rather donate to our locale thrift store–Deseret Industries. When I was working with the young people of my congregation, I had an opportunity to go up and tour my church’s welfare facilities about an hour or so north of my house. It was the first time I had the tiniest glimpse of our humanitarian efforts and outreach. I learned so much and felt so good about the wonderful work that was being done with our donations I feel completely confident it’s where my donations do the most good. So I love dropping off things I no longer need (or sometimes never did need) at their door.
One time before my enlightenment, however, I did take a few items I had up to a friend’s yard sale. She always had the best yard sales because her house was on a corner lot and everybody who was anybody drove by. I don’t recall anything else I took up to sell–and I generally try not to care for material things at all–but there was one thing in particular I cared about that day. It was an white with blue-stitched eyelet comforter that I’d had for years. It had been on my bed when I lived at home but had been too big to take with me to college and was one of the few things that had made its way back to me even after my mom packed up house and sold everything (including the unused sand-candle kit I got for Christmas one year and all my 8-tracks and my favorite vinyl (think Heart Little Queen, Fleetwood Mac Rumors, and a number of Foreigner and Journey albums) off while I was away at school so she could move the family to Utah.
In any case, I remember I priced it at $20 and reluctantly let someone bid me down to $10 and sold it to one of my neighbors (from whom, incidentally, I later purchased (at very good prices) beautiful black antique rocking chair and a rather large piece of hardwood furniture in which I now store my quilt fabric, while she was going through her e-bay, estate buying/selling phase).
In any case, I had seller’s remorse so badly.
I still have seller’s remorse over that blue eyelet comforter.
And yes we didn’t have a lot of–or any, really–extra money, but I’m quite sure that $10 (I’m doubtful even the original $20) was worth what it felt like to let that go.
It was, after all a comforter. And it was a reminder of time, place, and home I could never go back to.
There is no price on that.
[Day 160 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]