We went estate sale shopping with friends this morning. I love a good estate sale. You never know what you’ll find. Items with stories, vintage treasures, things I haven’t seen since I was a kid.
One house had a museum’s worth of old cameras on a rack. Boxes of film. Cameras from the ’80s, cameras from the ’50s, and everything in between. Another had a closet full of quilts. We love quilts. My grandma made several by hand that ended up with us, and every one of them is someone’s time and love, stitch by stitch.
Some houses are happy. Some aren’t. In a few of them you can feel that someone died there, and the sadness hits you at the door.
That’s part of why I always try to bring home at least one thing from a sale. Over the years I’ve gathered quite a collection of odds and ends, and I love them all. It feels like carrying a little piece of someone forward, in honor of whoever owned it first.
But the part of today I’ll remember is the record bin.
We’ve been friends with this family for over 25 years. I’ve known their oldest daughter since the day she was born. She still calls me Uncle David.
Today she was the one who showed me where the records were. She’d already been through them. She’d found a Bon Jovi album.
Beat me to it.
On any other Saturday, that record would have come home with me. Instead I was just happy she had it. She stayed and talked with me while I dug through the rest, and I enjoyed every minute. We both collect records now.
There’s a particular joy in loving something and getting to share it with someone you love who loves it too. I’ve known that kid her whole life. Today she was the one showing me where the good stuff was.
