The last trip home
I surprised all five of you regular readers this past week, didn't I? You thought I was going to go off on a rant about "who done whom" on the water tower issue, huh? Instead, I toddled off to Illinois and left the opinion column in the very able hands of Shreves Avery, who is about as staid and measured as they come. We all need that perspective on occasion, in my most humble opinion.
And we survived, didn't we? I can only hope that we all learned something as well.
I left Peabody to do the trip-back-home experience one last time. I had a specific job on this trip to northern Illinois. I was in charge of the Big Garage Sale. And we had a smashing event.
My sister Karen and I sold off our childhood from hula-hoop to strapless formal (yikes!), from Weekly Readers to those funny little pamphlets we used to get about "growing up." There were hats for church (some with veils), Capri pants & can-can half-slips from the 1950s. We had curtains, toys, and those old Christmas stencils we used to spray "snow" scenes on our windows. There were tins of all kinds, 1960s bell-bottom jeans, and yellow plastic 78-rpm records by Gene Autry and Roy Rogers.
We sold books by Gidget and Dr. Spock, college texts, Seventeen magazines featuring Twiggy, and lots of newspapers with headlines about Kennedys, Richard Speck, the moon landing, Charles Manson, and other historic events. There were 1950s end tables that I see on eBay, some clamp-on roller skates, and Queen Elizabeth paper dolls that a neighbor's daughters passed on to us decades ago.
We even offered buyers my sister's fire baton. I never knew she twirled a fire baton at football games. Somehow I missed out on that part of her life, although I do remember she was a member of a drill corps or something. But, I was off at college — I didn't know she was gutsy enough to toss that flaming baton into the air, around her knees, and whatever else. Sheesh! Actually I can't believe my mother let her do it. Back then Karen had long hair (didn't we all?) and I can't imagine all that whirling and spinning to catch up to a blazing rod that could send a hairdo up in flames in a matter of seconds.
I kept announcing to our customers that if they would just stick around there would be fire baton twirling by a 50-something babe in about half an hour. I thought it might inspire someone to buy the darn thing, but Karen wouldn't twirl it and there it was, hanging on its hook, when the garage sale ended. I kind of regret not bringing it home. I think I could have made good use of it with the Ft. Morgan, Colorado Chamber of Commerce at some point in the future.
We cleaned up on our garage sale. More than one person said, "Oh, I should pay you for letting me look back into my childhood." Everyone had fun and most people found something they thought they needed. Their stories were as good as ours. Leftovers went to a veterans' group, the Salvation Army, and a community theater organization. We had a good time and only minimal bumpy issues with our mother. She steadfastly ignored our activity and accepted what had to be done with grudging good grace. But she is that kind of person.
This time there wasn't much I wanted to bring back — just a couple of boxes that fit into the back seat. On the last day I picked up some brilliantly colored fall leaves from the front yard and pressed them into a book I was reading. The weather has already turned in the northern plains. Decades ago my parents had the good sense to plant stunning maples and birches that make a pallet of color I have never seen anywhere else. The real estate agent is anxious to list the house while the trees are in their glory. Who can blame her?
By the time this column goes to print, my sister will have locked the door for the last time and none of us will ever go back. Yes, there is a twinge of sadness; but then again there is that fire baton
I only hope there will be that kind of connection for my own children, my niece, and my nephews. And to all five of you faithful readers and your offspring, I wish for you a fire baton and all that it might bring.
— SUSAN MARSHALL
