Voodoo Child

Voodoo Child

So I picked up a voodoo doll and a watch at a yard sale the other day. These transactions presented a few problems: one, I didn’t need a voodoo doll; two, the watch was broken and three, it was my yard sale. These problems were exacerbated by the fact that I had been waiting in line behind my son while my daughter was working the register. My son had just picked up three stuffed animals and two squishy clear jelly-filled I don’t-know-what’s.

My daughter glared at me as I stepped up to the register and said “Wait, why are you the only ones buying things here? I thought we were having this yard sale to get rid of stuff.” I just stared at my new voodoo doll and promised that it would all work out somehow. She charged me full price.

It’s really bad to buy junk, really, really bad to buy your own junk, and it is beyond bad to pay for an old broken watch that you didn’t even use when it was working.

I remember having a yard sale when I still lived with my parents. No sooner had the tables been set up and the cash drawer stocked, than my mother began selling my father’s stuff. Looking out the window, he began screaming as a man wheeled away on his 3-speed. “Hey! That guy has my bike!” No sooner had the cyclist made it down the driveway than another eager customer waddled away with his stereo speakers. It was a good thing because his albums were next.

I have slowly been letting go of some of the many, many things we have acquired over the years from dead, divorced or down-sizing relatives. When we visited my in-laws recently, they had created a care package of stuff for us from Grandma B. We protested and said that we have way too much stuff, but before long, we were each rooting through a cardboard box of the strangest items- things not just unnecessary, but very similar to the very items we had been trying to sell.

My husband watched me like a hawk as I fondled bottles of lotion, baby powder, contact paper, sewing paraphernalia (I don’t sew, but I was threatening to teach the kids.) Later he marched past me triumphantly, toilet plunger tucked under his arm.

Also packed to go, was one large bag containing framed pictures of us, our children, and us as children. I have to say, there is no greater feeling of rejection than having your mother hand you a bag of your old baby pictures. If you take them, you feel kind of like a loser but if you toss them out, it is heart-wrenching: you notice a mild self-loathing creeping in. So, in a fit of indecision, you stash them in your closet. And you vow to never give your own children their baby pictures.

Until one of them sells you a voodoo doll and a broken watch.