Late last week there were “estate sale” signs around the hood, so on one of my walks I swung by and had a look. Not so much, originally, because of whatever items might be on sale, but for the layout of the house—one of the four-bedroom ones.
I have no insight into the circumstances of the event, although there has been a folded-up walker parked out front in the past. And I used to occasionally see an older fella sitting on the bench out front under the tree. So, I’m assuming that there’s either a death involved, or the occupant(s) moved into different accommodation.
However, from the moment I walked inside, I made a note to self: when the time comes for me to take either of those paths, get rid of everything beforehand. I mean, the term “estate” could be applied only in the loosest sense; well, maybe in the British meaning of “housing estate”, or ghetto. From furniture to clothes to dishware to electronics, there was not one single thing I would have if it were given to me. De gustibus non est dispuntandum and all, but I absolutely do not want anyone, friend or stranger, walking through my house and wondering, “Who would have this crap?”
(TBF, there were already pieces of painters tape with “sold” on some of the items, so I guess we’ve got the trash-treasure conundrum going.)
Beyond that, however, I thought it interesting that the four-bedroom unit looked so much smaller and crowded than my three-bedroom one. I felt like you don’t have room to stretch your arms out, so, ew.
But yesterday, outside the house, there were these items that clearly didn’t sell. We’ll see how long they last now that they’re free.
Update: as of 1956 last night, only the last bicycle was left. I guess the pricing strategy worked.
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