My Yard Sale Mama
You can catch Yard Sale Mama, if you really wanna, on any given Saturday morn.
If the weather is right, she’ll be out before light. To miss this would leave her forlorn.
If Arnold’s the Terminator, then Nancy’s the Accumulator, bringing home carloads of stuff.
She loves the wheeling and she loves the dealing. She just can’t get enough.
Friday nights are plotting sessions, with newspaper ads and maps.
Neighborhoods determine the order of the hunt and where the good stuff’s at.
Fibromyalgia won’t let this Mama climb hills or steps anymore,
But that doesn’t keep this “Make-A-Deal Diva” from going door to door.
She’d yard sale several times a week, if she could have her druthers.
She rarely buys for herself anymore: it’s for grandchildren, me or others.
Things left over might just discover they’re under a Christmas tree,
or else she’ll list them on eBay, and turn them into green.
Nancy has a very discerning eye, spotting treasures among the trash.
One look at a sale can tell this female if she should stay or dash.
Hitting her groove, she stays on the move, outracing, outbidding the boys.
Time is money to this honey, but you sense it’s a labor of joys.
“Love” was the word I planned to use above, but Nancy came to my aid.
She spied “joys” in a backyard sale, so a deal was struck and made.
The asking price was a little high, but Yard Sale Mama pointed this out:
“joys” was used a lot during Christmas, so its lifespan is surely in doubt.
She got her wish, as she often does, being the master bargainer, she.
They were asking $5 dollars, but Nancy was firm and wound up paying three.
Words I can handle when she gets home; they are small and easily stored.
It’s the tables, recliners, bookcases and such that hardly fit through the door.
If my back can take it and I don’t break it and through the door it goes,
we’ve created another obstacle: Where then does it repose?
Storage. It’s a problem. Stuff gets stuck wherever we can stick it.
I’ve suggested that she “Just Say No!” but the habit, she just can’t kick it.
We had a one-car garage one day, or at least that’s what I thought.
Now, one person can barely fit among all the treasures that she’s bought!
Our attic is full to overflowing and we’re about to suffocate.
When down it falls, we’ll probably ball, and then start to redecorate!
Yard sales are not for the faint of heart, nor for the late night owl.
You have to rise at the crack of dawn to find the deals that wow.
Strangers you meet on those dark morns, don’t remain strangers long.
It’s a camaraderie of bidders, you see, each trying to get stuff for a song.
If this is as bad as it gets, okay…my wife and her yard sales.
Compared with the ills of our society, this addiction really pales.
Go with my blessing, Yard Sale Mama. Be safe. Good luck to you.
But please…leave quietly in the morning, for my sleep is not through!
“Stay at Home” Steve Alexander
December 27, 2008
