I recently read a story about a painting that sold in Minnesota for $50 at a garage sale. It is reputed to be a long-lost Van Gogh. There is debate in the art world over whether or not it is an authentic Van Gogh because if so, it would be worth $15 million. A garage sale find for the history books. I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything that compelling at a garage sale. Plus, had I been there, I doubt I would have plucked out the painting of a bearded fisherman smoking a pipe and thought — I have just the spot for this.
As a rule, I do not enjoy garage sales, and I have no eye for hidden gems. They usually remind me of the items I most need to get rid of at my own house. Also, often people are selling very bizarre items. Do I want to closely examine their used set of used crutches selling for $15? No. I think anything that falls under the umbrella term medical or personal care should be banned from the resale market. I have even seen used hairbrushes at a garage sale. I’m nauseous just thinking about it again. But sometimes, I appreciate the walk down memory lane past items that remind me of my childhood home. Brass swing arm lamp? We had one. Giant ceramic frog? We had one. Copper Jello mold? We had one. Campaign style dressers? We had three. But the value people place on these used items from yesteryear is typically overly optimistic.
The unfortunate truth is almost everything I own right now will be at a weird little tag sale in the future, hoping to find a second life. The dishes. The furniture. The art. I’ll make sure I toss the hairbrushes before I depart. A handful of things will be passed down, but after a generation or two, things lose their sentimental meaning, and all that is left is aesthetic or monetary value. Alas, there are no Van Goghs tucked away in my garage. Perhaps I can entice someone into buying some harshly abused sports equipment?
In 1999, I took my Grandma’s oak clawfoot table to be refinished. It was the table my dad ate at for every childhood breakfast. It was the table I sat at when my Grandma taught me to paint. It’s the table where we play cards now. When I took it to the refinisher, he was very excited about it. He said, “I’ll give you $1500 for this table right now.” I called my Grandma and asked her if she wanted to sell. She declined and said, “Wow. I can’t believe he’d offer that for that old thing, but I’d rather it be nice for you. I like thinking it will be in your house.” She then added that I should not tell my cousins I would be the future owner. It’s still in my house, and I’m so glad she kept it for me. Too bad, so sad, cousins.
But I am wary of collecting things nobody will want. Growing up, I knew a family that collected Precious Moments figurines. Another who had Hummels. So many Hummels. Another who collected Department 56 Christmas village pieces complete with the mirrored skating rink. There seemed to be a thought that these collections would be “worth something” someday. I guess occasionally, this proves to be true. More often, it seems there are stories of people who throw away the *one* Beanie Baby that would have financed a family trip to Fiji. The factory-sealed Batman comic gets jam on it. The rarest coin gets lost in the junk drawer. Using our things to create memories seems the best-guaranteed investment.
I hope someday my kids fight over who gets the clawfoot table. Maybe none of them will want it. Or maybe I’ll give it to my most nostalgic grandchild and simply have them lie to all of their cousins.
Jen Fortner is a freelance writer who enjoys asking friends and strangers far too many questions. She spends her spare time sitting in inclement weather watching youth sports, traveling, cooking, and searching for the very best baked goods. She lives in Shorewood with her husband, three children and the most spoiled dog.