I went to an estate sale today.  They differ from garage and yard sales in that their venue is the owner’s home and  the sellers are people other than the owners of the merchandise.   The owners have generally moved to a retirement/elder care situation or are recently deceased, and the home is no longer occupied……at least, not at the time of the estate sale…. 

Some of the merchandise may be put on particular display, but much is left where it was in closets, cupboards, drawers, garages, even barns.  Soap is in the soap dish by the sink, shampoo is in the shower, cinnamon is in the spice rack. 

I don’t think of myself as a sleuth, but as I go through the various items that meant something to someone at sometime, I find myself trying to discover the person behind the manual type-writer, the books written in French, the  canvas rucksack packed with all the essentials:  fishing line, sterile dressing, extra socks, toilet paper in a baggy.  Where were the women’s clothes?  Where were the pictures?  There were hints like the new baby blanket in a bag, a drawer of linen napkins and tablecloths, a box of tired Christmas ornaments, some Hummels.  But the closets were sparsely populated with serviceable jackets and sweaters, and the feminine touch was a distant aroma, more of a memory than than anything else. 

The cramped and elderly  two story house was crowded with things that only the owner could have understood or wanted.  It was also crowded with people, hoping for the ‘find’.  One after another picked through every frame in a box, every family album on a shelf, every shirt  in every closet, every whisk or spatula or in every drawer.  And the accumulations of the owner, things with which he was unwilling to part, were quickly dispersed with no thought, no sentiment, no hope for the future. 

I could tell he must have been born in the late 20’s or early 30’s.   I think his wife must have died before he left this house–a house he probably called home for decades– and here was his frazzled son, selling his worldly goods at a moment’s notice with no prices and no help.  And here were all of we consumers, accruing things for our children to go through and dispose of down the road.  Vultures. 

At least, that’s how it felt.  I didn’t want his stuff, afterall.  I wanted him to be able to still be at home with his loving wife, having his children over for Saturday evening dinner and taking a long, peaceful nap on Sunday afternoon.  I wished he were there to put on his barn coat and go work in his garage in the late fall, knowing that on his return, the house would be filled with the smells of vegetable soup and an apple pie; the sight of his laughing wife, hair out of place and rosy cheeked.

I understood better why Jesus said that death is the final enemy.  Final is the operative word.  No more reading about tying flies.  No more sitting in the chair by the fireplace.  No more need for the phone or the cutting board or the barn coat.  No more beloved voices.

But we do not grieve as those who have no hope.  Death, afterall, is swallowed up in victory–the victory we have through our Lord Jesus Christ, who tasted death for us all.  And Christ Himself is the Door.   Death is the beginning for Christians.

This comforts me more and more, the older I get.  I feel melancholy at estate sales, but I know whom I’ve believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that day. 

I think I’ll go clean out a drawer.

Wednesday

 9:02am–
A male hitchhiker was arrested for having a sword in his backpack in Colfax.

9:23am–
A man reported his truck stolen at Granite Point. The truck was later located in Lewiston and the man did not want police to investigate the incident.

9:55am–                                                                                                                                       A woman who works at the Food Quality Building and records commercials about the benefits of milk reportedly received threatening e-mails about her commercials.

2:50pm–
A man was spotted walking down Northeast Stadium Way with a pistol. The man did not commit a crime.

Hercule Poirot could put these together and solve a murder in Peoria.  Miss Lemon could make new files.

From an editorial in The Independent, Gallup, NM (June 6, 2009):

“This wouldn’t be happening if we had a city manager who knew the law, knew his job and wasn’t under the mayor’s puppet.”

Friday

7:52am–A semi-truck reportedly knocked down a stop sign at intersection of A Street and North Line Street.

11:20–A car was reportedly driven into a ditch in Moscow.

11:25– A coyote was reportedly seen on Southeast Klemgard Avenue.

12:26–A woman reported that garbage was dumped on her car on E Street.

4:38–A coyote was reportedly seen at Krugel Park.

6:36–A coyote was reportedly seen on Southeast Sunnymead Way.

10:31–A couch was reportedly set on fire on A Street.

Saturday

6:17am–Tie-down ratchet tent straps were reported stolen on Seventh Street.

10:59–One parking sign was reported stolen and another three were damaged on Third Street.

Sunday

Pretty quiet until 11:56pm–Two men were reported running down Main Street naked.

No citations were issued.

birthday shoes

I keep clicking them together and saying, “There’s no place like home.   There’s no place like home.”  And when I open my eyes, I’m still standing in my own living room on my own carpet.  Guess I’m home.  But I sure do miss all those munchkins in TOP (that other place).  The shoes sure LOOKED magical.  Thanks Wannie!

Thursday, 3:18 — A woman on West Palouse River Drive reported she received fraudulent prize offers in the mail.

Thursday, 6:36 — A woman reported she was bitten by her dog on Anna Street.  The dog was taken to the Humane Society for quarantine at the owner’s request.

Thursday, 10:03 p.m.– An intoxicated white male ran naked through Zeppoz.  Police are investigating to indentify the man and possibly charge him with indecent exposure.

Obviously, one should think twice about living here.

             Rejoice in the Lord, O ye righteous, for praise is comely for the upright!  Psalm 33:1

     Comely.  No longer in common use, this word nevertheless immediately conjures up the image of a woman.  A beautiful woman.  A gracious and lovely woman.  A woman with head held high–but not her nose.  A woman whose words are gracious, seasoned with salt.  A woman clothed to attract admiration, to bring honor to her body and her God.  A woman who understands authority.  A woman walking hand in hand with her husband.  A woman honoring him and respecting him and even submitting her own desires to his.  A woman setting chores for her children and laughing with them as they wash dishes together.  A woman who quietly and quickly and firmly brings her children to cheerful obedience.  A woman who raises her children as their God-given authority.  A woman whose home is warm, well-ordered, interesting and welcoming.  A woman who sets a beautiful table and fragrant meals before guests, making them feel at home in her presence.  A woman who brings aid and succor to those in need, but never to the neglect of her husband and children.  A woman who gives her anxieties to her God, and leaves them there.  A woman who reads and listens and ponders, and submits every thought to the scrutiny of the Word of God.  A woman who loves being home and ‘making’ home. 

That’s it.  Comely:  (Strong’s 5000) Beautiful, pleasant, suitable and fitting.  From a primary root (4998):     at home!

Let us Rejoice!

If it’s too early for Christmas stories, sue me.    This is my blog and this is a Christmas story.  (Heh, heh.  Got a little defensive there.  Maybe even I think it’s too early. ) (No, wait–I never think that.)

It was not our fault.  John’s sport, afterall, was shot put.  What were we to do, relegated as we were, to the upper story?  And on Christmas Eve!  Let the reader judge. 

From the time we were very young–too young to really know that we were being raised by Santa Claus–we’d rise long before dawn on Christmas morning to sights and sounds that would cause any child’s vision to dance with sugar plums!  I can’t say I remember this, but I half wonder if we weren’t roused out of sleep,  before we were old enough to ‘get it’.  There were some people in the house for whom Christmas would have lost it’s luster if it had begun in daylight.   ‘Some people’ would be our father.

Mr. and Mrs. Santa would have Christmas carols playing on the hi-fi, ‘big’ presents open in front of the tree (which was already half-hidden behind the heaps and mounds of  wrapped presents!), only the tree lights on and the smell of coffee completing the scene.  In our peripheral vision, we sensed a table heavily loaded with sweet things and savory–but we were fairly single-minded.  This scene usually included lots of frenetic motion and squealing (on my part).  For this reason, I have no idea how John handled it all.  He probably sauntered in, nodding his head approvingly and thinking to himself, “Someday, I’ll be Santa Claus and this’ll all be mine.”  I can’t say because I don’t know.  I was too busy making noise.

What I do know is that he relished the early hour as much as anyone.  I was ‘anyone’.  That made us perfect partners for childhood crime.  If we ever actually slept on Christmas Eve, I’ve also forgotten.  The year that sealed my parents’ fate as Christmas morning push-overs, John and I checked our clocks–I was in second grade so, naturally, I had a good grip on reading timepieces–and decided it was TIME.  We just walked down the hall to the folks’ room and announced that Christmas morning had arrived.  Dad-Claus also looked at his clock and told us to go back to our rooms.  He DIDN’T tell us to go back to sleep.  He never did.  He is the funnest, cheeriest guy in the world, just for your information, dear reader.  And our jolly mother is his perfect foil!  As I told you:  Mr. and Mrs. Santa.  Christmas comes when it comes.  One doesn’t  postpone the inevitable.

They rolled out of bed, started the coffee, plugged in the tree lights, turned on the music and called my aunt and uncle, who had foolishly asked to join us for the festivities.  When Aunt Patty answered the phone, she responded to the announcement, “It’s time!”, with a long silence.  When she finally mustered the strength to speak, she asked,  ”Jimmy, do you have any idea what time it is?”   Hahahahaha!  Of course he didn’t!  Who can read anything, much less a clock, at 3:30 in the morning?   They came.  Christmas began at 3:45 am, that most auspicious of years.

We grew older and wiser–this does not translate to sleeping in on Christmas morning.  Duh.  It translated to having to use our wits when we were READY for Christmas.  We were probably twelve and fifteen, at the time of ‘the incident’, and our bedrooms were on the second floor.  Ordinarily, that presented no problems.  We could see the rides at Broomfield Days.  We could see the park.  We could get out on the garage roof, if we saw the necessity.  I’m guessing John may have seen the necessity.  He can set me straight later.  But it really put a crimp in our Christmas ’style’.  We were UP.  Christmas had arrived!  How to get the news to the Claus’s….

Where our parents had made their large mistake was in only carpetting our particular rooms.  They left the hallway NAKED, and therefore subject to NOISE.  Should we jump and stomp and pound on the hall floor?  Oh, please.  Any neanderthal could do that.  We wanted something subtle.  Something smooth.  We wanted to make a statement about our combined brilliance.  So, naturally, we decided to roll John’s shot put back and forth along that perfectly unadorned hall for as long as it took.  Wouldn’t you?   What would Mozart have done?  Or Ronald Reagen?  It was the only possible road.  How else were the S. Claus’s to know? 

By the way, it didn’t take long at all.