Estate Sales

My dad started taking us to estate sales when the divorce was finalized. Mostly because he has a new townhouse to furnish, but also because he had never been alone with us for a whole weekend before. The four of us would sit in silence in his camry as he drove us across New Jersey, stopping at 3-4 empty homes of the dead and moving. At each house he would set us loose to ramble through the rooms, collecting our pickings and returning them to him for approval. I remember my early treasures; a singing cigarette box, a century-old book of Grimm, a full-sized gym locker. I filled up my second bedroom until I liked it better than my first, and I couldn’t fit anything else inside. My dad ran out of space too, but that didn’t stop him. After my sister went to college, he filled her room with bird cages and christmas ornaments. My brother and I started to decline his invitations, but he kept on going. He still goes. I don’t know what he is looking for exactly-- nothing in particular, I think. He likes being quiet, and looking, and picking things up and putting things down.

In college I started going with him again because I had a new bedroom to furnish, and because I didn’t know how else to spend time with him. The houses were better out here in PA. You can tell everything you need to know about a house based on the rugs, and these were allll Persian wool. I remember a house on the rich side of Jenkintown that had books in 6 languages, art from all over the world, and stained glass in the kitchen. In the dining room, filtered light threw rainbows onto the vases and spoons and napkin rings. The beauty made me upset… I felt my eyes get hot. I was so envious of this life I would never have. Not just the money, but the education, the taste, the warmth. It was already too late for me. I cried, just a little, and swiped a coaster from the table. It was brown and printed with the tree of life, speckled with birds. I’m sure it was less than a dollar, and I’m sure that my dad would have bought it for me if I couldn’t. But I took it because I was angry and because I wanted to. Because I was sure that these leftovers were all I would ever get.

Recently, my boyfriend and I toured a home for sale very much like that house. It was being sold as an estate and was furnished beautifully, with handmade quilts on the beds, a library with a midcentury herman miller, and giant windows facing the Wissahickon. The previous owner had lived there for half a century and had created a paradise of a garden. Again, I was covetous. The realtor explained that although the house was priced within our budget, there would likely be a bidding war doubling the price. My throat closed up as he spoke. I wished I could leave already, and stop standing in this house that I would never have.

This time though, I felt the petulance of my reaction. I, at 26, cannot buy a beautiful house filled with beautiful things. Maybe I never will. But I do have a nice apartment, and I have filled it nicely. A 1940s enamel dining table and 6 matching chairs. A wooden firescreen hand painted with a pirate ship. Lamps, maps, candlestick holders-- finely crafted objects I have collected with my father. The plaster in my apartment is chipping. My dad still has builder-grade carpet in his townhouse. We live in flimsy housing, but fill our homes with the good stuff-- real wood, stoneware, brass. Objects plundered from people better off, like magpies stealing silver for their nests.