Garage Sale-ing with Aunty

 

“Hello, Hema.”

I looked into the smiling eyes and expectant face.

“Ready, Aunty?”

“Yes, chalein (shall we go)?”

We walked out to my car. Her woven handbag was hanging from her wrist. I knew it contained a handkerchief, a small coin purse and a few dollars.

 We were off on our weekly jaunt. Me a 40-something and Aunty a 60-something. A ritual like no other for me. A delightful pleasure to both of us. We shared a ride and a determination to keep to a very low budget of a few dollars only.

 Every Saturday about 12.00 pm, I would pull up outside her house, pick her up and we drove around neigbourhoods in Indianapolis and Carmel, looking for treasures that no one else wanted.

 “The Senior Centre, they said Meridian Hills is a good place today.”

“A community sale?”

“No, each house only, many houses.”

“Did anyone go there?”

“No, from the Community bus they saw three signs. We’ll go?”

I pulled out my Indianapolis map to plot the road. And off we went.

 In Indiana, unlike some other states, you didn’t need to get permission to hold a garage sale. You organized all the stuff you didn’t want in the house, displayed clothes on racks, knickknacks on rickety tables (also for sale sometimes), books and records in cardboard boxes and furnishings on the ground.

 I parked the car in the middle of the row of Garage Sale signs so that Aunty would not have to walk too far to any of the sites.

The first house we went to, she cast an experienced eye over the offerings.

She smiled at the woman who was sitting in the chair, reading a magazine.

“Hello,” Aunty opened the conversation. “You are selling books? No magazines?”

“No, these books are gathering dust. I need to clear my shelves to buy more,” the woman explained.

Aunty continued to make small talk while I browsed

“Yahan tho kuch nahin milega (Won’t get anything here),” Aunty observed.

We smiled our goodbyes and went to the next sale site.

 Aunty was clever and creative, always busy with some craft project or other, some of which would be dictated by what she found at these garage sales. She had an uncanny nose for bargains and a keen eye for all kinds of things that would be useful. She saw potential in every scrap where most others saw junk.

A skein of wool. Bits of cloth. An old dress that had a good pattern that she could cut up. Buttons of all shapes and sizes and materials. Picture wire. Crochet hooks. Knitting needles. Magazines with knitting patterns.

She shared her insights on how she would turn what seemed like random pieces into dolls, earrings, bracelets, wall pieces, blankets, patchwork quilts. Only those which had specific uses that she identified as gifts for her circle of visiting relatives and friends.

“Remember the blue napkin set we bought last month? I can use this print material to stitch a hem on it. The blue is very plain.”

 What I loved best was the camaraderie. She never persuaded me to try my hand at any of her craft work. Never said, “You can if you only tried… Of course everyone can and should be interested in crafts.”

 I am a later riser. She never complained that I didn’t get in time before the choice bits were taken, that we were never among the early birds to catch the brightest and cheapest stuff.

 She never blew her budget nor allowed me to. Once her store of dollars and change was exhausted, she would go with me to sites more to my taste. Initially when I was setting up my house, I would be on the lookout for lamps and side tables. Later through the years, I mooched around for used books, earrings. She never offered her opinion, never directed my taste. Her comments always centered on how I could use it, and gently steered me away from unsuitable or over-priced articles.

 I now have a flat in Chennai that has sufficient furniture handed over or shared with me by my family: antique chairs from my great-grandfather and my sister, bookshelves and a chest of drawers from another sister, crockery from the third one, a dining set from my aunt and cousins, beds from friends before they moved abroad. Each piece is imbued with personal history and emotions.

I still need lamps and side tables to make this flat into a home and I am reduced to banal shopping on Amazon.in

But no more quirky bargains from garage sales. Aunty isn’t here to go with me.

In memory of Mrs. Roma Bhattacharya, my whimsical person shopping companion.