Clowning Around

Last week’s little wooden rabbit may have started something. Or maybe researching how much (other) people who shop in stores rather than driveways are willing to shell out for cute wooden ornaments.

Two of the sales we went to on Friday (both listed as estate sales) seemed to think they were retail outlets. I expect higher prices at estate sales, but my goodness. These folks (said Judy and I) had lost their heads.

However, the place where I bought three items hadn’t marked prices on everything, and there were signs here and there saying to ask one of the attendants if you needed a price.

I picked out a couple of possibilities and was still looking around when another lady approached the upstairs sale attendant to get some prices. She had a rug, and the attendant suggested $20. Oh my no, said the buyer. Fifteen? Ten? They settled on eight, and I knew which attendant to go to for prices. She was a tiny little woman with curly gray hair wearing a very oversized gray t-shirt. Of course she was being bombarded with questions on prices. She looked at my two items and said $5 for the pair, but then needed to go off and find more stickers to write prices on. By the time she got back I’d decided what I was holding wasn’t worth five bucks to me and put them back. Told her I’d talked myself out of them and we cheerfully agreed that sometimes not buying things is the best policy.

Judy and I kept looking. There were signs everywhere to keep folks out of drawers and closets. My favorite was this one. I had planned to climb into the microwave but now I couldn’t. Heck.

Of course just about everything we thought was interesting had no price. The big wooden Pinocchio did have a tag -$45 - but I already have one that cost $1 (purchased on 7/7/07 – great date, huh?).

But then I spotted this small Pinocchio bottle topper. With no price. Back upstairs to my little old lady. $1 – I could live with that. He’s pretty darned cute and not something you see every day.

We finished looking around the house (trying not to wince too visibly at the prices – or break anything) and checked out the garage. Where Judy spotted this little guy     and I found this big guy.

I’m not much of a clown person but couldn’t resist his mustache. And he’s not a scary clown. A little research suggests he was part of a skittles set earlier in his life, and is French. So, back upstairs with these two. Five dollars, she said? I made a little face. Four? Okay.

Now, I’m not sure who the little old lady was. The sale was being run by a company, but from overheard conversation I gathered that the folks who owned the home and contents had not passed away but were moving to a much smaller place. I kind of wonder if little old lady was part of the family rather than the sale company. Or maybe she was the sale company owner’s mother, pressed into service. But she sure wasn’t pricing the way the others had. Which was clear when I went to pay. Put my three items down and pulled out the five dollars they totaled. The woman taking money looked at the handwritten price stickers and took my fiver, but her expression was priceless. Picture someone who’s just bitten into an unripe quince. Sour! Which made it all the easier to give her a very pleasant smile and carry my wooden score away.

And you thought I was nice before this, didn’t you? Hah!

We found one other regular old garage sale with regular old prices and regular friendly people. Somehow the subject of wildfires came up and I mentioned living in southern California. And as is fairly typical here, the lady having the sale was also from there, as was the other shopper in the garage, so we had stories to share. The other shopper, a middle aged guy, laid down quite a large stack of twenties and toted off at least four rifles. I spent sixty cents and went home with these vintage fireplace matches

(don’t worry, won’t be starting any wildfires with them – probably impossible here anyway due to the days and days and DAYS of rain we’ve just had), plus a dandy pair of shoes for the hubs.

Easy on, easy off, perfect by the door when you need to kick off your indoor slippers and go out on a wet deck.

Maybe I can borrow them to step out for a game of one-pin skittles with my French clown.