Estate Sales...Life's Leftovers

In Robert Fulgham's book, All I Ever Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, one of his lighthearted essays states that we can learn everything about someone by using their bathroom while visiting. Within that personal sanctuary,  secrets are exposed,  from prescription medications, gas relief products, hemorrhoid cream, shampoo preference, and the condition of their nightwear. Secluded in our bathrooms are the most private part of our lives, and Fulgham concludes the essay by saying that guests are no longer allowed to use his private toilet.

Over the summer, my sister and I went to several large estate sales in Memphis, and Fulgham's words came back to me with a sad reality. One of the homes was an immaculate two-story mansion filled with antiques and showroom-quality furniture.  The upscale street was jammed with every type of vehicle: luxury SUVs, U-Hauls, and beaters, symbolic of those crowding the house. Immigrants, used furniture dealers, casual shoppers, and gawkers jostled their way through the stunningly appointed rooms. For some, it was like a museum tour, and for others, an upscale garage sale, as the cross-section of the newly arrived bought linens and towels, while others placed bids on Persian carpets, objects de art, and massive furniture pieces. As we were leaving, an upper-middle-class man slowly descended the grand staircase with a massive armload of men's white dress shirts, pressed and on hangers, as if the owner was planning to wear them next week. But now, he no longer needs them. How would he feel watching his immaculate shirts sold at bargain prices? What is this buyer going to do with thirty white shirts? 

Our next stop was a very upper-middle-class neighborhood, and we hoped to discover more treasures. While the house was grand, the inside was worn, dark, and dated. There were some interesting paintings and large Chinese screens; however, these were overshadowed by beds heaped with clothing, linens, old Christmas decorations, and tables jumbled with old electrical appliances. Those who managed to get inside had also dropped a few rungs on the social ladder, but they were still tunneling through the shabby offerings. 

For some inexplicable reason, one of the bedrooms evoked Faulkner's haunting short story,  'A Rose for Emily, ' a tale of dark, desperate necrophilia. The room was dominated by an intricate figure of a dusty mythological nymph suspended over the bed, draped in a once-creamy gossamer fabric now tinged with age. I envisioned a cherished daughter, and I pondered her whereabouts. What dreams did her innocent soul weave beneath the ethereal nymph? Did her romantic aspirations materialize, or was she fated to endure a life of torment like Miss Emily? It's peculiar how the mind can leap from fairy tales to necrophilia, but that's the enigmatic nature of the human psyche.

The internet is teeming with estate sales, each one a puzzle piece in the larger question: what became of the owners? How would they react to strangers sifting through the remnants of their existence? Can they perceive the hushed comments on their lifestyle, the state of their abode, and the conjecture about their life? Like Fulgham, I too have decided to spare myself the invasion of privacy.  I will preemptively dispose of my belongings and steer clear of the spectacle that is the  'Estate Sale.'

Memphis, 2014