My mom was a collector of things. Well, maybe collector is too highfalutin of a word; my mother accumulated stuff. Demitasse sets, oversized sofas, martini glasses, cookbooks, Christmas ornaments, dogs, bags of Swiffer duster handles. She passed away at home, surrounded by the objects that had attached themselves to her life like metal filings to a magnet. At four feet, eleven inches tall, what she lacked in height, she made up for in clutter. I was overwhelmed by the prospect of what to do with so much stuff after she died. It was like being a toddler abandoned in a Walmart Supercenter, if Walmart Supercenters sold only objects acquired by grandparents. I figured I’d host a gasoline dinner party and serve canapés of lit matches, until somebody suggested a tag sale.
Before I crash-landed in the suburbs, I had only known about tag sales from riding my bike past open garages filled with street-side souvenirs and haggling neighbors. Simon had bought a beat-up baseball mit from some drunk guy standing in front of his house in Oklahoma, and I’ve coveted many a porcelain deer, duck, and kitten marked for sale at $2. But I’d never imagined that I would be hocking the home that my mother had inhabited for over a decade. I’m not a particularly organized individual, and my understanding of retail pricing can be boiled down to fifteen minutes spent watching The Price Is Right while on line at the post office. If I hadn’t been referred to a group of professionals I would have sold everything on the premises for $25 and a bag of Oreos.
The three women who arrived at my house resembled the three fairies from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty, only with less color coordination and flying. They came across as though they either deal with complete idiots like myself all day, or they have kids of their own who are more interested in staring at computers than hobbies such as tennis or mock trial. They spent two weeks walking through the house, removing items from every cabinet, closet, and corner. They stuck pricetags on everything, if I hadn’t said I wanted to keep my dog she would have been sold with the china. It was pretty unbelievable, if somewhat unlivable, as the shop tables and racks that were erected throughout the house made me feel like I was squatting in an antique shop.
Although the things for sale ranged from coffee tables to cookie jars, the ladies were able to gauge pricing based on books they consulted, and years of experience doing the same thing for other unfortunate widows, widowers, and children of the deceased. Though nothing was guaranteed to sell, everything was on display. They warned me that I might want to get out of the area for the two days, as it can be somewhat traumatic to see hoards of strangers pawing all of your worldly possessions and arguing over their worth. They also cautioned that sometimes people arrive early to get the best deals, and that they might pressure me to let them in to see what’s available before the sale technically starts. Sure enough at 7AM two men were standing on my lawn. Before I could pull a Clint Eastwood and snarl at them to get off of it, they asked if I had stereo or camera equipment. I coyly told them they could wait an hour and packed my dog into the car in order to escape whatever pitchfork-wielding crowd was about to march down my block carrying torches and demanding fondue pots. To be fair, I didn’t have any stereo or camera equipment. But I did have lot of wires, and a really nice set of Bundt pans.
Nearly everybody knows that selling things can make money. I remember pawning everything to my name back when I was drinking, and although that money certainly didn’t go towards useful items such as food or rent, it familiarized me with an immediate, consumer-friendly business model. Here is this pair of earrings/necklace/record, how much are you willing to pay? Easy enough. But with tag sales, there’s a bit of a strategic catch, or at least there was with the liquidators I used. The items that didn’t sell on the first day were marked down by 50% for the second day. Which means that the sport of shopping for tag sale aficionados is a game of patience, luck, and, of course, negotiations. Or just downright stealing. The stories I heard included the tale of one individual who went around to certain pieces of furniture and peeled off the SOLD stickers, hoping to get the women in charge confused and have them resell the item to him. Luckily the ladies were consummate professionals, and the douchebag left empty-handed.
Upon returning to the house, it looked as though a gang of robbers had marched through while freebasing coke, followed by a gang of raccoons. Although the three women had done their best to remove as much of the rubbish and clutter, it still had the look and feel of a crime scene. I was left to ponder what had just happened. In forty-eight hours my mother had been parceled and sold. The sweaters she’d worn to after-school events, the dishes she served cheese on during the holidays, her makeup case that had held countless tubes of black mascara and samples of Chanel perfume, hats that I had teased her about, impossibly high-heels in sizes reserved for Barbie dolls and child beauty pageant winners, armoires that cradled clothes, end tables that I’d stained with glasses of juice and dented with my baby teeth. My memories were now owned by nameless, faceless strangers who had talked the price down to the lowest possible number and walked off carrying something of immeasurable value to two people, one living and one dead.
Of course this macabre goth song of a recounting comes with a silver lining. I could never have carted an additional lifetime’s worth of crap into my new apartment. There would be no room, both physically and metaphorically. But I don’t think anyone can ever prepare themselves for the levels of loss that accompany the death of a loved one. There is the instant devastation that goes along with the burial process and all of its pomp. Then the acknowledgment of the void, the empty space they used to inhabit, how when you tell a joke there’s always one peal of laughter missing, or one hand that isn’t on your shoulder reassuring you when you come home filled with doubt about work, the state of the world, your relationship, grocery shopping, whatever. Losing the remaining accessories of my mother came with an unexpected reopening of the ten-week-old wound of her death. And although it bums me out and makes me listen to even more Joy Division than usual, it is a good thing to get this over with. Otherwise I’d wind up carting around her half-used tube of toothpaste, dirty slippers, nail file, and countless other objects that she’d left her imprint on while still alive. Letting go is a chore for the living. For my mom, she had the easy end of this task, though I know she would have loved to have seen that we sold my collection of spiked collars.
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This is a touching piece, Miss Drew. There is something bizarre indeed about sifting through a deceased loved one’s belongings, an invasion of privacy one would never perpetrate on the property of a live person. I remember packing up all my brother’s shit when he died, including a box full of call slips from the Library of Congress and a six pack of brand new Calvin Klein underwear (briefs, black, size 36). But as detached and sad a process as it was, I felt like I got a glimpse of my brother (and his underwear) that I never saw when he was alive.