The fancy term for “garage sale” is “estate sale,” and to be honest I’m not a fan of either. Rummaging around through someone else’s pile of discards looking for a bargain or an undiscovered treasure is not my idea of a fun Saturday. But while I am not a person who likes to go to estate sales, I am a person — if last weekend is any indication — who needed to have one.
From 9 a.m. Friday morning to 4 p.m. Sunday afternoon last weekend, I let strangers come into my living space and buy up a lot of my old stuff. I sold books and clothes, furniture and antiques, odd little items I’ve collected from my travels, art and wall hangings, three antique kilims I carried back from Antalya 20 years ago, and an enormous amount of kitchen junk you would never, in your wildest dreams, imagine that anybody else would pay for.
