LAT. 39°50' LONG. 98°35'
NE 1/4 - SE 1/4 - S32 - T2S - R11W
I read a classified ad for a Santa Fe estate sale offering science and medical books, among other treasures from the office of an OB-GYN. So I went down in hopes of getting some cool used technical books for the store. The sale started at 9:00, and when I got there at 9:05, the cars were already lining both sides of a narrow dirt road and backed up to Old Santa Fe Trail.
For some reason I have romantic notions about estate sales. The word estate connotes to me wealth, dignity, brandy and cigars in the library, and the warm and mellow glow of clustered tapers at the dinner table. The buyers at an estate sale would be quiet, reserved, the kind who make literary or historical jokes ("The War of Jenkins's what?") and who appreciate rare first editions, fine linens, exquisite crystal, and porcelain from far Samarkand and exotic Ind.
What I attended was a giant garage sale with scores of people vying for plastic containers with lids, half-full bottles of cleaning spray, exercise balls, battered pie pans, self-help books, UFO books, a signed autobiography by Barbara Bush (I briefly considered buying it, but I decided against it, because this whole global mess is ultimately her fault), My Book of Poems, Poems I Love, Prayers and Poems for Tiny Tots, Seasons of Joy: a child's first book of poems, and other books of that ilk.
When P and I were using the subways in London and Mexico City, we initially were polite and let the elderly and infirm go ahead of us. It took only a couple missed trains to make us realize that if we were going to get anywhere, we'd better do as Londoners and Mexicanos do and start shoving and elbowing our way onto the cars. So it was at the estate sale. At first I let people pass. One woman walked purposefully straight at me and did not deviate a centimeter from her trajectory. I could either duck into the linen closet or be walked on. (Although the napkins were Ralph Lauren, they really didn't fit our taste or color scheme.) In no time I was pretty free with my elbows, and I used my backpack as protection and a weapon.
It was fun to watch people fight over premium items. While I was on line to pay for my purchases, two families were disputing the ownership of a Cuisinart and smearing each other with colorful and apparently highly accurate epithets.
One of the pièces de résistance was a gynecologist's examination table.
At your cervix. Ah-hahahahahahahahahah!
It put me in mind of a time in Maxwell when our first superintendent went to Santa Fe and bought some impressive looking stainless-steel equipment at bargain basement prices. He bought a hospital-grade tray warmer for the cafeteria ladies, who said they had no earthly use for it. So the janitors, by dint of intricate footwork and some of the senior boys, moved it up the stairs to the second floor of the grade school. They also had to carry up another of the superintendent's purchases, a huge stainless-steel cabinet; nobody could identify it. It had shelves. Water apparently circulated through it. Its use remained a mystery until Howard, P, and I went up to the second-floor storage area and wiped off the dirt-covered plaque on the bottom of the machine. It was a bedpan washer.
Back to the estate sale. I got The Geological Atlas of the Rocky Mountain Region for $50.00 (selling on ABEbooks for $250.00), a little bread pan, and an unusual copper bowl for Michele.
Elephant folio, about 2 ft. x 3 ft.
Now that I am an Estate Sale Virgin No More, I'll do better at the next one.
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