Yard Sale Confidential | Only In New England

The onset of a yard sale typically begins with the realization that your junk seems to be reproducing, creating entirely new categories of clutter. So you decide to sell that extra stuff, casting better judgment and previous experience to the wind.

First comes a period of sorting, pricing, and domestic negotiation. Among the things you agree to part with are pots and pans that look as if they were used in some mining operation, toys for which the kids campaigned for months and forgot in weeks, coffee mugs with such heartwarming sentiments as “For all your insurance needs,” half-refinished furniture that you really were going to finish someday, and appliances like the hot-dog cooker, cupcake maker, and pizza baker that you bought because you forgot you owned an oven.

Finally, the big day arrives. At 6:00 a.m., you’re hauling stuff out of the garage when the first buyer arrives. “I know I’m a little early,” he says, “but I’m being sworn in as Head Bull of the Moose lodge today.” Early birds have been using lame excuses like this since Ben Franklin ran Poor Richard’s Yard Sale. Don’t be bamboozled; make him show you the secret Moose handshake.

By 8:00 a.m., the first wave of shoppers has arrived, fanatics who’ll hit a dozen sales before the day is over (fewer than five and you’re still ranked as an amateur). They have the intent look of people scouring a crime scene for clues, but they’ll settle for vintage Pyrex.

At 10:00 a.m., a woman in a “Born to Bargain” sweatshirt walks up to you holding the vase that Aunt Edna gave you, which you forgot to mark. You never liked that vase, but you know Edna paid quite a bit for it. “How much do you want for this?” she asks.

You refuse to rise to the bait. “How much will you give me?”

She tries again. “What’s it worth to you?”

You respond, “What’s it worth to you?”

This game can go on for some time, since neither of you has anything better to do. Eventually, you let the vase go for $10 and pray that Aunt Edna never finds out.

By high noon, the sun is directly overhead and shoppers are sweltering. You move your André Kostelanetz records, Richard Simmons workout videos, and Danielle Steele novels—veterans of previous sales—into the shade for optimum product placement. It doesn’t help.

Shortly after noon, a guy with a slightly crazed look shows up. You recognize the symptoms of Hiddentreasuritis, a disease that makes people believe they’re going to stumble on a mint-condition Mickey Mantle baseball card or first edition of The Great Gatsby and then retire in comfort on your stupidity. You casually pull out an old stovepipe hat belonging to your uncle Arnold Lincoln—marked “A. Lincoln” inside—and leave it where he can find it.

At 1:00 p.m., a beat-up Subaru pulls up, and you groan. The driver, a known haggler, refuses to pay the asking price for anything, no matter how cheap it is. If you were selling a Norman Rockwell original for $2, he’d ask whether you’d take a buck—and then he’d hand you a $50 bill to pay for it.

By 2:00 p.m., the hard-core shoppers are long gone. A Lexus with out-of-state plates appears at the curb, driven by a woman who clearly spends more on her hairdresser than you do on your mortgage. She looks over your stuff as though it might be contaminated with the Ebola virus. She’s probably not going to buy your black-velvet painting of Sylvester Stallone.

At 4:00 p.m., you’re putting stuff away, but there’s still one guy casually browsing. He takes his time, looks over every single item … and then leaves without buying a thing. It turns out he was just killing time while his son was at a trumpet lesson across the street. Your only consolation is that you’ve heard his son play.

At the end of the day you collapse, completely exhausted but $27 richer. You still have the hot-dog cooker.