"Do you have time?" She'd begun.
"Let's do it." She decides for us.
We were lured into the woods
by blaring yellow signs that
simply said ESTATE SALE.
No address, just an
equivocably angled arrow.
Like children following a white van
that purports to have CANDY,
we enter a high-cap search for
this elusive mansion in the mist.
We circle the forests
— and almost give up —
until we spot several automobiles
in an otherwise empty woodland,
with their blinkers shining Right.
High upon a sylvan hill
sits a multi-million dollar estate.
Below, more than fifty SUVs
and sedans line a shaded cul-de-sac.
Above us, one hundred
curious visitors about, milling.
My gung-ho companion and I
trudge up a steep incline
past bluestone and gargoyles.
We cross paths with people,
on their decline, as we rise.
"Is it worth the hike up?"
We ask one lady.
She has a plastic Thank You bag
in tow, heavy with untold —
and therefore intriguing — loot.
She twerks her eyebrow in reply:
"Oh, it's memorable!"
"But you bought something?"
I observe.
The departing woman nod-shrugs.
Hmm, what are we in for?
We wend our way up a
double twisting stone stair
into a wildly appointed front hall.
We sense it immediately.
This impromptu excursion
is now fated to be
An Experience.
Women in branded smocks
guard every exit.
One of them points to a stack
of shopping hand baskets:
"Take one," she off-mands.
Stepping over the threshold, we
both mutter "Oh wow"
in a strange monotone, our
expectations side-swiped.
Score of dirty shoes
tread over
soiled
wall-to-wall carpets.
We squeeze our way
through corridors, tight
with furniture and wares
and looky-loos.
Our eyes flit
and fly every which way.
So many visual inputs,
our brains try to keep up
with the data noise,
the over-stimulation.
We are trying to do calculations
assessments, appraisals
across every known
category of collectible.
High brow and brow-raising,
intermingled
and amongst one another,
an air of chaotic nonchalance.
Painted papyrus scroll triptychs.
Off-color 1980s posters.
Chippendale furniture.
Disney multitudes, some in mint,
others in chipped condition.
Gold plated bone china.
Silicone ice cube trays.
Whether designer or derelict,
all items feel wildly overpriced.
To the point that I ask
"Are we on Candid Camera?"
Not a family who's embraced
Swedish Death Cleaning, I take.
By the time I'm exiting the library,
I already begin mentally deforesting
my own house's closets, nooks
and horizontal surfaces.
Every surface is covered
in art.
Or crap.
Or crappy art in many cases.
I yelp when I back into a furry
sculpture that nips at my calf.
I turn to see my attacker:
a sheepskin-flocked,
dog-shaped lump of a statue.
(To each their own)
Each horizontal and vertical space
feels filled to its breaking point.
Visually, physically, emotionally,
these walls and halls bear
the accumulated detritus
of a least two lifetimes of long-lived
humans, and their now-grown children.
It's a weekend Estate Sale in
privileged horse and woods country,
the kind of elite thrifting diversion
this area is known for.
A chance to walk the halls
of the monied class.
Poke into gourmet kitchens.
Glance into five-car garages.
Peek into koi ponds
and gander at putting greens.
Saunter through pool houses.
Assess if it's possible to carry
a two-hundred pound stone bowl
down the winding drive. (It's not.)
Score discount haute couture
found arranged tight like sardines
bursting from walk-around closets
larger than my own bedroom.
The official mission:
purchase heirlooms at a bargain.
A secondary benefit, of course:
see how the one percent live(d).
For this manse, I wager,
had owners, past tense.
Omnipresent, warring scents
of Yankee Candle-esque
Ocean Moments, Summer Shine
and Apple Orchard
scented wax jars flicker
in near every corner.
It leads me to wonder in
what rooms, not if,
any elders had expired.
A walk to the un-attached
carriage house confirms
my hypothesis.
In a Noah's Ark
of aging and decline,
we spy two of each
lined up, ready to board:
Canes, tripods,
walkers, scooters.
As if being readied
for the next world,
voyage makers
for the departed
Pharaoh and Pharaohess.
At the front, the last life stage,
are a couple wheelchairs,
side-by-side in life
and now, too, in post.
Taken as a whole:
An evolutionary
line-up,
in reverse.
My buying buddy's
attention shifts in approval,
pointing out the pair
of Ferrari red mobility devices.
"You know, those are
top-of-the-line scooters.
These folks knew how to fly."
I chide her to buy one,
"You know, for later.
Fifty bucks is a steal!"
She demurs. "Too soon, for me."
We make our way back
into the main house where
the top floors are crammed
with hanging rods on wheels
and muumuus and furs
and dinglehoppers and golf polos.
One room is dedicated
to the aspiration to craft:
sewing, crochet, quilting supplies
if nary proof of projects in flight.
Every room we enter
brings with it a lesson
in oboselence and futility:
Colorful iMacs,
discarded Barbies
strewn in boxes.
Leaking laundry bottles
in brands I've never heard of.
Yellowed soft cover
fad cookbooks.
So many sagging,
threadbare satin settees.
Piles and stacks of
momentos,
sports paraphernalia,
kitchen gadgets
tried-once-and-gave-up
hobby wares.
Walls of carefully curated
collectors' items that
likely have no resale value.
All that glitters, is likely grime.
I open a kitchen island drawer
to see if any nifty tools are for sale.
Instead, I find a half inch of crumbs
and a loose, Phillips head screw.
I instinctively shudder.
Close the drawer too fast;
a dust plume fills my nose.
I grimace. Yech.
This home is filled-to-the-rafters
with decaying gimmicks and junk.
The sadness creeps into our souls,
like the light coat of mildew found
on so many of the dodgy items
with high-dollar neon sale tags.
I imagine the adult children,
walking the halls one last time
sighing and signing the
Estate Sale vendor's contract.
Sell it all. We don't want to keep a thing.
Our glee for voyeurism fades
like the velvet couch in the parlor.
Between the smells and the parallels
of too much and of nothingness,
our spirits are flagging.
It's getting bleak —
in the house and in my head.
My shopping pal and I
exchange eyes.
The Glance.
You know the one.
The:
Let's Jet! And don't trip
because I won't slow down
to pick you back up!
look.
We cut a quick path to an exit.
We descend down the
steep hill towards the sedan.
Each of us, lost in our thoughts,
likely about the inevitability of death
and what legacies we might leave.
Light stuff.
Lighter than the junk
we see others making their way
down to their vehicles with.
It doesn't matter how many
zeroes are in your estate.
You will die, like all beings.
And all your troves of belongings?
You can't take it with you.
What matters so deeply in life
is but a husk when you're gone.
