In the annals of "days that I was very tired at the end of" this one is right near the top.
This was the second (and last) day of our "very large yard sale". Stuff we've been hoarding and hauling and storing for way too many years. We did good. We sold nowhere near everything, but quite a bit.
At some level it is deeply mortifying to see all the stuff you've been saddled with spread out across your property, for sale to who knows who. It all looks so much more worn out and tatty than you would have thought. I wandered through it all wondering if anyone might see something beautiful or worthwhile, and lots of people did, but not always what I would have expected.
Cheap wine glasses did not appeal to anyone. They will go to the thrift store tomorrow.
Likewise, silver-plated serving stuff. I guess no one else likes to polish it either.
Ghosts of kitchens past. My son took home the red canisters. The blue ones didn't sell. I thought someone would snatch them up.
I think Andy's motorcycle helmet finally sold. Every kid that came through tried it on.
Do you know what this is? We don't. Ray priced it at 50 cents because he thought that seemed right, though he didn't know what it was. He was sure I knew what it was. I don't.
A reward to anyone who can tell us what this nicely made, nearly new "thing" is. Needless to say it didn't sell, but Ray nearly sold it to a very nice fellow with a great sense of humor. He didn't know what it was either. It is about 12" square, made to mount on a wall (?) and the part with the price tag on it rotates either direction, but stops when its outer corners hit the keystone-shaped part at the top of the circle.
In the middle of all this chaos, I bathed, dressed myself up, and went to a funeral for the father of my good friend, Beth. You have seen her on these pages—my walking partner. Beth's Dad was a decorated pilot in WWII and again later in the Korean War, and more—a much loved father and grandfather. The photo, published in his obituary, of him as a young WWII, pilot is a beauty. Like my own parents, one of that great generation that fought that war. The photo reminds me of just how young they were. It has been 11 years since my own father died. I think of him every day. I know how Beth is feeling. Losing one's parents is profound. It is never the same again.