The Estate Sale
When Sean read to me—he had an extensive collection of books — we immediately headed to the estate sale. It was in an established part of town, the now vacant house standing on the corner, shaded by low-slung trees, their branches stretching over the neatened yard.
I confess there is something rousing about entering a stranger’s home and observing how they lived. Their furnishings, tastes, and collections—their pictures, curios, and art they held dear—these possessions give clues as to who they were.
But nothing tells a story like someone’s books.
Inside, the familiar scent of an old house hung heavy in the air. Tarnished silver—including a full tea service—sat on a buffet. Several complete sets of China, fine and delicate, were carefully stacked on tables. Kitchen tools and implements, some I didn’t recognize, were scattered about.
My assumption that someone loved to cook was confirmed when I entered the kitchen. The ceiling vaulted like a chapel, with sunshine pouring in from the skylights. A shelf sagged with cookbooks, the corners nicked, the pages stained, each on sale for six dollars.
Handwritten signs reading BOOKS pointed the way outside. We passed an old Honda in the driveway, dully varnished in sap, looking like its best days were far behind it. We walked to the garage and climbed the stairway to a door.
Built-in shelves paneled the room. One wall was dedicated to politics and history, but the rest of the collection varied. Christian apologists like C.S. Lewis stood beside Eckhart Tolle.
There were books on segregation, reparations, and racial reconciliation. Family support guides for OCD and bipolar disorder toppled over in the corner. An entire row was devoted to fly fishing, peppered with motorcycle maintenance guides.
Most of the literature was by American authors, such as Vonnegut, Twain, Hemmingway, Faulkner, and Steinbeck. There were several copies of The Joy of Sex and More Joy of Sex.
In this room, this library over the garage, I felt sincere admiration for a person I’d never met, whose name I didn’t know. A vibrant life was lived here, one with curiosity and depth. One who sought justice, recognized human dignity, and appreciated leisure and pleasure—someone with an unquenching thirst to learn more.
Before we left, I bought a book on dreams by a Jungian analyst. I’ve been reading it and practicing the suggested exercises. One is to study a room or a house and recall the details, to be alive in the memory like a waking dream.
And this, my friends, is that.
