From the WSJ Opinion Archives
TASTE COMMENTARY
Schmoozing Without Boozing
A yard sale brings civil conversation--and a nice profit.
I was carting out the garbage at 6 a.m. on the last Saturday in June when two middle-age men, within 30 seconds of each other, stopped at the driveway and asked if this was the correct address for a yard sale. Indeed it was, I replied, but reminded the early birds that the event wasn't scheduled to start until 9. Not entirely satisfied, one of them boldly stated that perhaps he should receive a discount on the merchandise because of his enthusiasm.
Although taken aback by the premature appearance of potential customers, I mustered up a degree of conviviality and said that yes, once my sons had hauled the boxes of books, videos, CDs, DVDs, handbags, scarves, toys and other items from the basement onto the front lawn, special consideration would be given to both of them.
As it happened, a score of bargain-hunters, dealers, longtime friends and neighbors also arrived early and began pawing through the long-forgotten treasures--I was amazed that a dented Power Rangers lunchbox could fetch $4--and a rather extraordinary day unfolded. I knew that such events are a traditional form of recreation in the U.S.--in some communities, such as Beverly Hills, a local permit is required--but the friendly ferocity of our guests was something I hadn't reckoned on.
In fact, it all began as an experiment: Remembering a similar sale one of my brothers and I organized nearly 40 years ago, I saw the project as an excuse to get my boys away from the television and Internet and finally--four years after we'd moved to Baltimore from Manhattan--restore a semblance of order to the basement.
My wife and I had limited expectations, but we promised the kids that if they did the necessary work--including organizing the junk, carrying it outside, putting up fliers and greeting customers--the proceeds would be split between them. I figured that if the weather was pleasant, and it was, we'd attract maybe 20 or so curiosity seekers and wind up with a modest $250 windfall. By 2 p.m. that day, however, the total exceeded $1,000.
The real revelation to me was that it's possible, in 2007, to stage what amounted to a morning cocktail party--without food or alcohol--and emerge with blood pressure intact and no bruised feelings over heated differences in political or cultural views. The schism began during Bill Clinton's presidency, of course, but rapidly widened after the presidential election in 2000 and the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11. I'm hardly alone among Americans who follow current events closely in learning this lesson the hard way: I've lost friends because of my conservative economic and foreign-policy opinions and have reluctantly, but wisely, confined my conversation with, say, vehement Pelosi Democrats to sports, kids and the weather.
The people who came to the yard sale were an eclectic bunch, ranging in age from 8 to 80--one elderly man told me that Walter Cronkite's aunt was his fifth-grade teacher--and appeared to be of mixed economic and social backgrounds, the kind of collection of citizens that a focus group coordinator might set out to find. I was sorry that there was no red-white-and-blue bunting decorating the house. A modern-day Norman Rockwell (if such a person exists) could have produced a nifty portrait of this circus of humanity.
Our 12-year-old son, Booker, schmoozed and haggled over prices with customers--he was the alpha sales guy--while his brother, Nicky (a 14-year-old fledgling filmmaker), engaged music and movie buffs with conversation. I was free to chat at will with our guests. One woman was a teacher who asked me to find as many history documentaries as possible, and as we foraged together through videos about U.S. presidents, World War II, civil rights and the Great Depression, we spoke without rancor about local and national politics. She grew up in Nebraska, the daughter of staunch Republicans, and was now a committed Democrat, supporting John Edwards in 2008. I'm no fan of the former senator, but we laughed together about his now-legendary $400 haircut, dismissed the prospects of Mitt Romney, and agreed that the country would be better off without another Clinton in the White House.
Some buyers were in no mood to gab. One bearded man, wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt that suggested he was a participant in the "Summer of Love" 40 years ago, spent half an hour examining hundreds of CDs and resisted my attempts to talk about the music from that era. I lost track of the guy and found out soon after that he'd taken advantage of Booker, who was juggling four deals at once, offering the paltry sum of $70 for a crate of CDs at a dollar apiece, lower than the asking price of $3 each.
But there were some who came just for a chance to kibitz, such as a guy who, more than two decades ago, was an employee of mine at Baltimore's weekly City Paper. He hung around for over an hour and wound up spending a token $5. There were many moments of hilarity. One couple, who emerged from their car bickering, combed through the boxes and were unable to agree on anything. "Beth, should we get this copy of 'Dirty Harry'?" asked the husband, only to be shot a withering glance and the admonition of "Bert, it's $2, so for heaven's sake just buy it and leave me alone!" Just a minute later, this seeming yard-sale barracuda took me aside and affected the demeanor of a doting grandmother, telling my wife and me that our sons were "adorable and perfect gentlemen."
Mary Jo Spiegel, writing recently in the Cincinnati Enquirer, described her own yard sale which was held on July 4. "Is there anything more American than the embarrassing spectacle of your worldly goods (by which I mean absolute junk) displayed on your front lawn?"
Frankly, the thought of embarrassment never even crossed my mind. Quite the contrary: The boys are planning another sale at the end of August, and our family has no fear of being ostracized over the "junk" laid out across the lawn. Besides, Booker and Nicky are confident that a bolstered inventory--including a used Weber grill, nearly 500 books, several dated video-game systems and racks of their baby clothes once earmarked for posterity--will keep them in economic clover well past the start of next year.
Mr. Smith writes weekly columns for New York Press and Baltimore's City Paper.
