Black and Gold and Red All Over

He spent ten minutes poring over the box of belts and belt buckles. I was there to perform the most basic of yard sale tasks - name a price and take his money. But, honestly, if he had asked, I would have handed him the entire box without taking a penny.

"How much for these?" he asks, holding up four belts and just about every buckle in the box.

"For you, four bucks."

He looks excited. I have clearly lowballed the price since my garage sale expertise is so limited.

"Ain't nobody else gonna want them," I drawl, slipping into my hick voice as easily and comfortable as I slip into the sheets at night. The "ain't" takes three syllables and the "want" turns into wone. "Don't see a lot guys this size shopping at garage sales." I slip my arm around his waist as I help him stand up from the lawn chair.

My husband's head whips around. I smile at him, knowing that once again, the suburban boy from Iowa is impressed with my ability to blend into this environment.

"Five dollars for the lot." He hands me his five dollars, cobbled together with one dollar bills and coins from the ashtray in his pickup truck. I scratch the beagle sitting in the passenger seat of the pickup behind the ears before he turns it on, once, twice, coughing and sputtering all the while. I wave goodbye.

*******************

They had packed it all up. In a matter of ten hours, we sold a lot of it and dropped the rest of it in the donation box twenty miles away. If you walked into the house, with the exceptions of the photos and the strange assortment of dream catchers and walking sticks hanging on the walls, you wouldn't even know he had lived there.

It is a sobering thought that the possessions so important to us right now - our clothes, photos, books, and dishes - are worth so little at the end of life. There's nothing left now. Nothing but memories and the ability of his youngest child to slip in and out of rural and metropolitan environs without missing a beat.