The Mother Theresa of New Jersey? Not Quite.
June 11th, 2007
Yard Sale Day!
We woke with the alarm clock’s miserable 5:30 buzz, needing enough time to set up among the hundred or so my-trash-is-your-treasure vendors at the annual Rutgers yard sale.
My favorite moment of the long, sizzling day came courtesy of a woman as Jersey as they come. And I say that with total Garden State affection. With her big-framed sunglasses and bigger personality, she asked me to tell her more about the volunteer trip. (I taped signs to the edge of our tables explaining my mission).
I filled her in. She told me I was doing a good thing, that I’d remember it a long time. “Just make shaw,” she said in her Jersey drawl, ”that ya get awl ya shots and things befaw ya go.”
With that, she toddled off to the next vendor. “And who knows?” she shouted over her shoulder. “Maybe you’ll come back the Mutha Theresa of New Jersey.”
I’m not sure about that. But this I do know. Slap on a price tag and people will buy anything. Even a large, gold-framed hologram of Jesus and Mary – priced to move at $5.
The electric-colored picture was among the dusty relics we thought for sure would never go. For years, and with great question, it hung on the wall above my parents’ bed. It mesmerized and frightened. I’d plant my tiny feet on their silky bedspread to get a close look, leaning from left to right to see Jesus’ face morph into Mary’s, and back again.
It was tacky enough back then. Who would buy such a thing now?
“This is lovely,“ a woman said, holding the picture out like a masterpiece. Her small son blinked up at it. I knew his pain, but prayed (to Jesus and Mary) that he wouldn’t utter a discouraging word. The woman handed us five dollars, not even a whimper about the price.
Oh, but the day saw its hagglers.
“Eight bucks,” sighed one woman, “is more than I’d like to spend on hot rollers. I’ll take ‘em for four.”
“I’m sorry. I really can’t,” I told her. “I’m trying to raise money for a volunteer trip to India.”
I offered them for six. She sheepishly opened her wallet. “Ok. I’m an animal rights advocate. I know what it’s like to try to raise money for a cause.” I thanked her, told her to enjoy the rollers and tucked six singles in to my uber-stylish fanny pack, now filling with bills and coins.
We baked on the hot asphalt, presiding over our tables of junk and tussling with the thrifty until 1 p.m. (Even our vending neighbors bought a few items. “Aren’t they here trying to get rid of their own junk?,” I asked my sister.)
We went home, our load lighter nearly by half. We were exhausted. But before we collapsed onto our beds, my mom emptied our fanny packs and counted every dime and dollar.
$234.
Not a killing. But not half bad, considering these were small-ticket items. It feels kind of daunting right now, but I think it’s all going to come together just fine in the end. I’ve got all kinds of fundraising ideas swirling in my head…so help me Jesus, Mary (and okay, Joseph, too).
