Buyer beware

The yard sale is the last stronghold of “caveat emptorâ€� in America. Even the used car seller has had the brakes put on. The yard sale has no rules. Vendor’s license? We don’t need no stinkin’ vendor’s license.

The buyers prowl the neighborhoods, hoping for that lightning strike, the hidden treasure, the incredibly valuable find for a pittance — the guy who doesn’t realize what he’s got. But beware: All is not as it seems, for subterfuge is the name of the game. Open all the drawers on that dresser to make sure they all have bottoms. You might want to bring your own light bulb so you can plug in the lamp. Where can I try out this shotgun? Oh, it’s OK, I promise I am not a convicted felon.

This is where you will find that stuff from your childhood. Chances are it is just as beat up, too. The buyer’s mantra is “Will you take $1?� Oh, wow. A complete set of Jarts. You know, those big spikes that you throw up in the air so that they come down and stick in the ground … or whatever. You might want to pick up those riding helmets, too.

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The seller has been up all night pricing inventory. The prices are wishful thinking for the most part. Some of it will find its way to the curb with a pathetic, handwritten “Freeâ€� sign on cardboard. The rest will get put up until next year, when it can be hauled out again based on the theory that the right sucker has not been born just yet.  

The hours of prep time added to the time spent manning the booth will work out to a wage of about 50 cents an hour. We must, of course, ignore the fact that the inventory ever had a cost.

It helps to have a few big ticket items. One of the more popular is always the tables that you have your stuff set upon, and how much for that old junker in the driveway? (My car is NOT for sale.)

 If I could just learn to live far enough in the past, I could find everything I needed for my lifestyle and at bargain prices: eight-track audio tapes, VHS movies, vinyl records, tie-dyed clothing and bell bottom jeans. But alas, I live in the trough of the waves. I am not quite with the latest thing and just a little too far ahead of that earlier thing that, if I waited just a bit, would be back in fashion again.

Oh well. Time to pack up. Oh no. Here comes another wave. Deep breath.

Bill Abrams reminisces and resides in Pine Plains.