Love at First Bite

In his best-selling book The Five Love Languages, Gary Chapman outlines five ways people communicate and understand love. They are: Words of Affirmation, Acts of Service, Physical Touch, Quality Time, and Gifts. My daughter Amy, however, has identified a sixth love language (or perhaps a new dialect combining several of the above) and it is called simply, "Food."

Those of us fluent in the Food Love Language (FLL), know that food is never really just about food. Food represents so much more--the giving of your creativity and energy, the actual presentation and fulfillment of your most basic physical needs, and then quality time as we eat together. What we want to hear back are Words of Affirmation--not necessarily about how great the food is, though certainly welcomed--but more how much you are enjoying the food and how loved you feel that we are feeding you.

I have blogged endlessly about eating as a child and my rocky beginnings, about feeding animals and the pleasure it brought me. But I really began to notice food when I got married and began making it myself. Early attempts at cooking were disastrous. I remember a whole chicken I roasted upside down that was dry in spots and raw in others. It bled when I tried to carve it and I cried. I had no understanding of how to get multiple dishes done and on the table at the same time. That night we ate potatoes and veggies while we waited for the meat. I also didn't understand portions. I made two gallons of scalloped potatoes for my young husband and myself and was distraught when, after two solid hours in the oven, the potatoes were still crunchy. I threw out more food than we ate in those days--blatantly refusing to consume my mistakes. The one dish I succeeded at was spaghetti, and I made it for every single person who came to my house for two years.

Dating back to earlier times, I have stunning recall of meals I was fed. I remember eating bagels for the first time that friends from New York fed us in Florida in 1983, homemade deep dish pizza at Stan and Cheri Balgaard's in 1985, and roast beef on homemade buns that Charlotte Lueders brought over after the birth of our son in 1987. We were introduced to home canning and brussels sprouts at the Lowe's in Missouri (1986), chicken parmigiana at the Savocas and creamed spinach and hot German potato salad at the Sybesmas in Philly (1995), grilled swordfish at the Sheets' (1988) and homemade egg rolls and jiodza by the Waldrons--missionaries to China--in 1997. My cousin Bill King bought me my first Whopper in Washington in 1979. It was the first time I ever ate tomatoes on a hamburger. And liked it. The first Sunday we visited a brand-new church in Pennsylvania in 1994, the Hackenbergers invited us to their home for sandwiches and they were the best we'd ever eaten because we weren't eating alone. Right here in town our friends, the Moneys, introduced us to wild game and the Abrahams to Indian cuisine. My sister, Kathleen--aka the Soup Fairy, and our pastor, Ned, opened my eyes to the splendor of fresh herbs...and baklava. I could list dozens of friends and relatives who have fed us over the past 30 years and even tell you what was on the menu, in most cases.

Before you scoff--think! Doesn't a sandwich that someone else makes and cuts on the diaganol just taste better? Or coffee that someone else pours? Or even canned soup that someone else heats on the stove? Why is food such an expression of love? I think eating appeals to us all on a very basic level. We eat, at first to survive. But once our lips taste ice cream, it is all over. We continue to eat because we love food. And we love to enjoy the experience with others. It is a social event, a hobby, a way of life. When we feed people, we are tapping into a selfless, nurturing side of ourselves. When we are fed, we feel loved and cared for.

I wish I had been in the wilderness the day that Jesus was confronted with 5000 hungry people. The disciples wanted Jesus to send the crowds away because it was late and the mob was hungry. And Jesus said, "YOU feed them." Feed them! Feed them what? Five loaves and two fish fed 5000 that day with 12 baskets of leftovers. Who was the most amazed when it was over? The crowds who didn't know where the food came from? Or the disciples who knew full well? Five thousand bellies were filled. Five thousand grateful hearts were satisfied. And 12 stunned men who got to witness firsthand the love of God expressed.

My friend, Christie, also fluent in FLL, has told people, "If you want to be in my inner circle, you must let me feed you." I like nothing better than people I love, sitting at my counter or table or on my porch, eating. If I offer you food or drink and you refuse, you offend me. Just know that going in. I will watch you eat. I will listen to what you say and even what you don't say. If you praise the food, I make mental note to prepare it again, only better. If you say nothing, or don't take seconds, I record that as well, and will serve you something different next time. I take notes as you discuss other foods you have eaten--what you liked, what you didn't--and it all goes into a file in my head. If you really want to respond to me in a way that will communicate love, you will say something like this to me:

Me: Stephie, how do you like the egg/ham/cheese croissant sandwich that I made for you on this, your last day home for the summer [before you head off to the godless college cafeteria]?

Stephie: Oh, Mom, this is the best sandwich I have ever eaten in my whole life. You must love me a whole lot.

You see? Wisdom out of the mouth of my own babe.

I made blueberry muffins this morning...now, who can I feed them to?

Frogs, Flowers, and the Frampoline

We just enjoyed a lazy summer afternoon with our three year-old grandson, Cohen. First thing, he and his eleven year-old auntie catch a frog and bring it to show me. I am duly impressed. We get the frog all situated in a habitat in the wading pool before I wander out front to weed my flowers.

"What kind of flower is this?" Cohen asks, leaning over to smell a white blossom.

"It's a daisy," I tell him.

"Oh. It 'mells like cookie dough."

"What kind of flower is this?" he moves down the row planting his little nose in a burst of purple petals.

"That's a petunia," I smile checking to see if the daisy does, in fact, smell like cookie dough. Perhaps...if you use a lot of imagination.

"Oh. This kind 'mells like mustard," he informs me, wrinkling up his nose.

We proceed around the house through the driveway where he discovers some ragged geraniums I had dead-headed earlier from my hanging pots.

"Wow, look at these flowers somebody left on the FLOOR!" he exclaims, gathering the battered bits of red into a bouquet in his chubby hand. "We can use these for the wedding!"

"Who's getting married?" I wonder aloud.

"Victoria." (His young auntie.)

"Who is she marrying?"

"Me," he answers matter-of-factly.

His betrothed is waiting for him on the back porch where she attempts to teach him to play Chutes and Ladders. He is disappointed there are no weapons involved. How can you Shoot Some Ladders without a gun? He doesn't understand taking turns. He just wants to spin the spinner and glide his cardboard guy up and down the ladders and slides. Victoria finally gives up.

"How about we jump," his other aunt, Stephie, suggests.

"Yes!" he shouts. "Let's bounce on the frampoline!"

For lunch Cohen eats half a hamburger patty with no bun, a whole dish of watermelon, two chocolate Snack Pack puddings, a glass of chocolate milk, and two brownies. His Bumpa tries to get him to nap but the only one who falls asleep is Bumpa. Apparently Bumpa failed to ingest a sleep-defying dose of chocolate.

Several hours later, Cohen and his mommy and baby brother leave. Our house is strewn with toys, and an abandoned fort encompasses the entire music room. Both porches and the patio are covered with balls, toy cars and animals, puzzle pieces, books, and games. Something sticky coats the coffee table, along with empty sippy cups and a lone shoe.
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Sundays might be more restful if you don't have a three year old in your life. But we wouldn't trade this kind of entertainment for anything!

In All Fairness

I went to the Ottertail County Fair last night with my youngest daughter, two sisters, our parents, and an assortment of nieces and nephews. Let me just state from the start that I think fairs are a ridiculous waste of money and total sensory overload. Every time I go, I vow, "Never again." Yet, every year, like some internally-driven migratory bird, I end up there anyway.

After shelling out some cash at the gate, I parked the car and we picked our way through the muddy lot to the horse barns. I love the smell of the horses and take my time admiring the various colors and sizes of the animals. The box stalls were open in years past enabling me to assuage a lifelong yearning for a horse of my own by stroking the noses of beasts belonging to others. But the recent addition of wire mesh has successfully blocked out the probing hands of the public. Now all I can do is look, not touch. Huge let-down.

Outside the horse barns, we walked through the food vender's alley. I took note of what they had to offer relative to the cash I carried on my person, fully aware that I couldn't possibly have one of everything I wanted.

Past the aroma of deep fried starch, we entered the midway. Children instantly began pulling on my hands to go this way and that. I looked at the price of the tickets and at how many each ride required, and opted for the Unlimited Ride Wristband for my eleven year-old. I sauntered after my child and her cousins as they raced from ride to ride, observing people as I went. There were families with strollers and babies in backpacks and gaggles of middle-schoolers looking pretty darn cool without any adults to boss them around. An elderly couple strolled along, holding hands and smiling at each other. I'm sure they weren't there for the rides any more than I was. I noted there was no carousel, and that made me feel disappointed. There was a Tilt-a-Whirl--my favorite ride as a youngster, and a small herd of ponies tethered to a wheel. The ponies wore tiny saddles and a sign offered rides to children for only four dollars. For another mere six dollars, you could purchase a grainy picture of your child taken by the owner of the ponies. The proprietor didn't allow people to take pictures with their own cameras as it "cut into" his profits. I'm sure. I put a quarter in a vending machine that spit 20 alfalfa pellets into my hand and offered them to a diminutive donkey in a visor that read, "Don't Touch My Hat" in bright letters. He looked weary of people touching him and his visor. I longed to steal him away for a nice vacation in the country.

After an hour or so, I succeeded in tearing the kids away from the rides long enough to go through the animal barns. We saw Lion-headed Rabbits, fancy speckled roosters who kept announcing sunrise, pools brimming with native Minnesota fish--further reinforcement of my disdain and mistrust of lake-swimming. The last building we toured was the Children's Barn and I was immediately smitten by a rotund pygmy goat in a pen with her week-old triplets. They were the size of bunnies and just as soft. I eyed a mama llama across the aisle with wariness. She had a beautiful blond baby standing beside her with lashes that were too magnificent for words. I never can quite approach any llama without hearing my late grandpa's voice in my head, "Watch out for llamas! They spit." Though I have never witnessed that phenomenon, I didn't want to test his wisdom tonight. I talked softly to her and she laid her ears back and regarded me without blinking. I am not fluent in Llama Body Language, but in Dog, Horse, and Cat this means nothing good so I kept moving.

Next we proceeded to the fair's version of the mall food court where everyone could have whatever kind of high carb/high fat food they wanted. Victoria and I split a foot-long corn dog (Meat/Veg/Grain Group) and I thought, as I do every year, that I have never tasted anything so good. Then we split a chocolate milk shake from The Shake Shack (Dairy Group). I ate one cheese curd from a friend's table, cotton candy from my baby nephew, and two french fries from my dad's tray for dessert. That was enough of a well-balanced diet for me.

More rides. More time waiting at the temporary fences, waving at my young relatives as they whizzed past, their hair blowing wildly around their heads in a blur. I remember how much I liked rides when I was little--in the days before all that spinning did strange things to my head and stomach and where the heights didn't make the bottoms of my feet itch. I hugged a few long lost friends, chatted amiably with complete stangers, and toted around $10 stuffed animals and inflatable plastic toys that were made in China for pennies.

The next break from the midway landed us next to a small corral where piglets were running a race to the blare of country music. Eee-haw! Afterwards, grown men mounted inflatable horses and bounced around the enclosure with all the seriousness of jockeys in the Kentucky Derby. A cowboy congratulated the winner and commenced chucking beaded Mardi Gras necklaces into the crowd. Not a big fan of bling, personally, I wanted one for my daughter. I waved at the cowboy and he flung one at my head. As I looked up, I was blinded by the sun and felt the necklace ricochet off my head and onto the grass behind me. I spun around and caught one end of it just as a little girl took hold of the other.

"It's mine," I informed her. "It bounced off my head."

"Okay," the eight year-old conceded sweetly, and returned to her place by the fence. I was instantly filled with remorse for my childish greed. I inched over and stood beside her.

"Do you already have one?" I ventured, wanting to be friends and hoping she'd forgive me.

"No, but that's okay," the child beamed up at me. The knife in my heart twisted.

"I'll help you get one," I offered, and spent the next five minutes bellowing, "HEY, COWBOY!" at the top of my lungs until he threw another necklace our way and the little girl was properly adorned.

Side Bar: When I confessed my sin to my daughter Amy this morning over the phone, she restated my misdeed for clarification, "So, you took a piece of plastic jewelry from a little kid?"

"That's right."

"Were you drinking?"

"No," I replied, annoyed that she even asked. She knows I can't stand the taste of alcohol and I'd be too cheap to buy it if I could.

"Because if you ever do, I don't want to miss it," she explained.

Ah...yes, well...it is good to know one's limits, isn't it?

Back at the Fair: Dusk had fallen and I was completely penniliess, not to mention sticky of hand and hoarse of voice. I thought we were set to go home when, suddenly, all the lights on the rides went on at once and the kids needed to do the rides "just one more time."

All of them.

I probably won't go to the fair next year...

The Great Adventure

Ever since school got out in May I've been promising something to my 11 year old daughter and 3 year old grandson--a Great Adventure. After a month of daily reminders and excuses--it was too cold, too hot, too wet--I decided that last night it was Time.

Victoria skipped around while we set up the tent in our backyard. She cheerfully helped me drag blankets and an air mattress and sleeping bags and pillows to the tent. We set up a little table in one corner and couldn't wait to show it to Cohen when he arrived, fresh from a late afternoon nap. He ran in circles around the tent, bouncing from the screened door to the mattress before rewinding and doing it all again.

I took both kids to the front yard and pulled out a small box I'd been saving. It contained five packages of caps--the kind they sell for cap guns. I peeled off a little roll for each of us and sat down on the sidewalk with a rock to show them my favorite childhood pastime. They flinched at the first snap and spark of a cap as I made contact with the stone.

"This is what the grown-ups gave us to do when they were busy shooting off real fireworks," I explained, pounding away with my rock. Cohen tossed a handful of pebbles on the ground next to me before racing off into the backyard to find something more interesting.

Victoria was more diplomatic. "This was probably fun when you were a kid, huh? You didn't have much stuff to do?"

"Nope. We didn't," I answered, slamming a bigger rock into an entire wad of caps and sliding my bare foot away from the flash of fire it produced. I love the smell of burnt gunpowder.

We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, repeatedly smacking the caps with our rocks, before Victoria ventured, "Well! I think that's about it for me. Will your feelings be hurt if I'm done now?"

"No," I said, striking the rock against the red dimpled strips of paper and pausing to squint through my bifocals to see which ones I'd missed. "You can go." I stayed outside on the sidewalk by myself until the whole box was finished. Cars drove past. I didn't care if people wondered what I was doing.

Afterwards, we lit a fire in our container on the patio. It was windy and the smoke billowed after me wherever I sat. Despite the wet wood, we managed to blacken the outer layer of four hot dogs and ate them through the haze. Cohen's drink blew off the table and spilled on the pavers. Then his chips flew away along with his entire plate.

"The Adventure is over," he announced.

"No, it's just STARTING," I promised with renewed enthusiasm.

I got out the graham crackers, Hershey bars, and marshmallows. Cohen ate four marshmallows and the chocolate out of two S'mores. The three of us got into our jammies and settled into the tent to watch Milo and Otis on Cohen's handheld DVD player. (The screen is the size of a credit card so you have to sit really close to see...and hear.) Cohen stripped down to his Spiderman underwear to be really ready for sleep. He snuggled in and watched the movie until the closing credits. It was starting to get dark outside the tent and I kept dozing off.

"I'm ready to go home now, Nema," he declared, leaning his sticky face toward mine, staring with wide eyes that didn't look the slightest bit sleepy. Ten minutes later, his daddy came by and took him to his own bed. Victoria and I hunkered down again into the covers and listened to the crickets in the grass. "Thanks, Mom, for doing this with me," she whispered. I nodded. "Sometimes little kids don't appreciate all the work adults go through for them, do they?" she added with all the wisdom and perspective of a child perched on the edge of adolesense. I smiled at her in the waning light and held her hand across the tent until we both drifted off to sleep. The night may not have been much of an adventure, but it was still great.

What We Give Away

"Never reserve anything. Pour out the best you have, and always be poor. Never be diplomatic and careful about the treasure God gives. This is poverty triumphant." -Oswald Chambers

What is it that enriches our lives? Is it possessions? Is it occupation, vocation, degrees or awards? Then, shouldn't it make sense that the happiest people on earth be the lucky few with unlimited wealth, perfect health, fame or public honor? Yet, if I have all the wealth in the world, and no one to share it with, I am impoverished in the worst way imaginable.

One of the first social skills parents teach children is to share. It is a lesson we need to have drummed into our little heads for years because we are born yelling, "MINE!" My daughter recently observed two children she was babysitting as they played outside on their deck. The older child, a three year old, was eating Fruit Loops out of a bowl. His one year-old sister crawled over, pulled herself up to the bench beside him looking for a snack. The boy pulled his bowl away and told his sister, "No! This is mine!" When the baby persisted, he swept the entire bowl--cereal and all--onto the grass below, just so she couldn't have any. My daughter was shocked at this blatant display of selfishness. 30 years of parenting has tempered my response as I know this is nothing but typical toddler behavior. But what is "normal" in the development of small children looks appalling on adults: How lonely our lives are if we become stuck in this Me First mindset! Fully aware of how socially unacceptable this behavior is, I am frequently tempted to cloak my own persistent selfishness with thoughts like these, "Well, I have to take care of myself, too!" And, "We have our own bills to pay." Or, "I'm always the one who calls/gives/helps. Let someone else take a turn."

I recall a situation a few years back when one of my children didn't want to share and God allowed me a glimpse into my own heart: There was a new student coming to school and I told my characteristically generous child, "Why don't you give a little gift of some of your school supplies to the new girl? I'll take you to Target after school and buy you more." And she refused. I was stunned. Did she think that I really wouldn't follow through on my promise to replace what she gave? That she might get stuck with boring yellow #2s or lame pink rectangles instead of the glittery pencils and dolphin erasers I had bought initially? I tried another approach. I told my daughter that I was willing to buy her a dozen new pencils if she would share one--I would buy a whole package of cuter erasers than the one she didn't want to give away. I tried to paint a picture of how welcomed the new girl would feel by this simple act of kindness and wouldn't she like someone to treat her that way? Still, she resisted.

I was speechless with holy indignation. I wasn't asking the child to give something that cost her anything. I had bought every single one of the supplies in her overloaded backpack (plus the backpack itself and all her new school clothes!) I felt anger rising as color in my face. Before I reached the boiling point, I caught myself with a single thought: How do I act when I am asked to give something away? Do I remember that everything I own, every talent I possess, every breath that I take, every moment I call mine---is a gift? Am I aware that every single time I yield myself as a conduit of blessing to another, I make room in my heart for a generous God to pour in more to keep the cycle going?

It is easy for me to say, "I love you so much I would give up my life for you." Really? But would I lay down my life? Can I set aside my own desires to see someone else happy? Would I give up the last piece of chocolate cake? Would I take that call in the middle of the night? Would I rather go without the reward to see you succeed?

I believe that happiness only comes when we give what we have away.

I've heard it said, "We can't out-give God." What would life be like if we all made it our goal to die trying?

Defining Greatness

What makes a great dad? And how do you know if a man will make a good father before you marry him? In many ways, a mother is made at birth--both she and the child know their relationship is what keeps a baby alive. But I believe it takes a lifetime to make, and appreciate, a father.

I first met Ron when he was a junior in high school. We started dating that year and, though he was quiet and shy, I took note of how he treated others. He was respectful of his mother and sisters. He was kind to his little brother and brought him along on many of our dates. He was a student aid on the playground for elementary children and they loved him. He was sweet to his little nieces and nephews and talked about them with fondness. But the first baby he ever held was ours: Kimberly was born almost one year to the day of our first wedding anniversary. Ron became a daddy just before his 22nd birthday.

I remember how awkward we both were with Kimmie, but it was especially noticeable on Ron. His great big, farmer boy mitts were clumsy with all the flannel trappings of a newborn. He looked at me with tear-filled eyes. I think we were both wondering the same thing. "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

Somehow, our daughter survived and, less than two years later, we had our second child, Amy. Things were less complicated now that we knew how to put diapers on frontwards and didn't feel so compelled to lay awake nights making sure this baby kept breathing. These were very busy years for a young man of 23 who still didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up, who had to work hard to get along with his tired, hormonal wife and keep his growing family fed and clothed.

Over the next five years we moved five times between three states and Ron changed jobs about as often. He took Bible classes in Florida. He did some dairy farming, a little carpentry, worked as a youth pastor at our church. He started his own business. We added two more children after that; our son Michael, and daughter Stephanie. Ron developed a reputation for being the parent you didn't want to mess with and frequently got to fulfill the dreaded promise, "Wait until your father gets home!" That must have been fun for him---to come home tired from a long day at work and see who needed a spanking! But he supported his wife 100% and if she said the little cherub sitting on the steps polishing his halo needed to be punished for some earlier misdeed--he believed her and delivered what was necessary. The kids learned early on that mom and dad worked as a team and could not be easily divided.

It was also Dad who taught the kids to work. He showed them how a toilet should be cleaned and posted handwritten, step-by-step instructions inside the bathroom cabinet for them to refer to. There was a right way and a wrong way to load the dishwasher so as to get as many dishes in each load as possible. He didn't allow lengthy showers that wasted water or lights to be left on when no one was in the room. If he said "Be home by midnight," and you weren't--heaven help you deal with the boredom of being "grounded for a week," his standard length of confinement for missed curfew. One of our teenagers commented on his icicly direct eye-contact when he was angry telling him, "You have such evil blue eyes!"

Ron commanded respect and had no tolerance for a "smart mouth" toward himself but especially directed at his wife. He taught the children to respect their mother and to thank her for every meal and clear away their own dishes. He showed his son how a man should treat his wife and his daughters how they should expect to be treated by their future husbands.

He played with his kids. There were endless games of cards, chess, and CandyLand and the watching of countless Disney movies. He willingly took part in their Make Believe and became everything from the Big Bad Wolf to Joseph, husband of Mary. He sat passively and allowed his hair to be fixed in barettes and curlers. But the kids' favorite games were the ones he made up: "Airplane"--where he would lie on the floor on his back with his feet in the air and take turns "flying" them around on his feet while he held their hands. He also played The Tickle Game where "Stop means go and go means stop" and everything they said meant "tickle me more." There was always lots of screaming and laughing and he usually did this at bedtime to get them all nice and riled up.

The more children we had, the more Ron warmed to his role. I have always told people he is, and has always been, the kinder parent. It was Daddy who got up with a sick child during the night. They always went to his side of the bed and woke him first. He'd change the sheets on their beds without complaint, clean up the puke or pee, get them into new jammies. Even when I had a nursing baby, Ron would hear the crying first and bring me a freshly diapered baby who was ready to eat--allowing me to get enough rest for a shift that lasted all the next day.

Our last child, Victoria, was born when we had two teenagers in the house and both of us were perched on the edge of 40. We were more tired than we had been with our first four children with all the sports and music and work schedules of so many children to keep up with. We told everyone, "Tori is our practice grandchild." She slept in our bed until she was six. She doesn't remember being spanked. She hasn't got a clue how to clean a toilet much less replace the paper on the holder. We have enjoyed her completely and her daddy is tightly wrapped around her little finger.

Through the last nearly 30 years of parenting, it has been Ron's special privilege to tuck the kids in and pray with them at bedtime. As they've gotten older, he never tires of involved discussions with them on baptism and divine election or philosophies of life, work, politics, and relationships. He has demonstrated to our children how important it is to know God and to yield to his control in their lives. Our grown children call him when they need advice about work, remodeling, conflicts with professors, funny sounds the cars are making, or doing their taxes. They know their father's love language is to serve them and he does it with joy.

Ron has upheld tradition in our family. The kids know that they go out with Dad for breakfast on their birthdays. They get to pick the restaurant and order whatever they want off the menu and even the adult kids love this time with him. Both of our married daughters chose husbands with many similarities to their dad. Both men asked for Ron's blessing prior to proposing to his daughters and he was greatly honored--thinking this was a dead tradition. It was an extremely emotional moment for him to walk each of his daughters down the aisle at their weddings and he struggled throughout for control. If you think I am a sentimental person, you have never truly known my husband.

Ron has survived two decades of teenagers and the malignment and lack of appreciation and sleep that goes along with those days. Now he is enjoying the sweet reward of seeing his children parent. "Bumpa" loves Cohen, Sawyer, and Paisley completely. He is the first to scoop them up when they come to visit and he loves to take them for rides around the yard on the lawn mower. I look at this man with the thinning gray hair and remember a headful of unruly blond curls. His sky blue eyes have not lost their sparkle but have mellowed and require glasses to read small print. His hands are softer, instead of calloused and bandaged from hard physical labor, and he uses them to confidently embrace his grandchildren. How did I ever get so blessed? How could I have ever known, at 18, what I was getting when I said "I do," to this man?

Happy Father's Day, Sweet Heart of My Heart! This holiday was made for you. The world would be a better place if there were more men like you...

The Stuff Nobody Wants

Okay, I am back again for a sequel to yesterday's, "The Things We Keep" to talk about the things NOBODY should keep. Or try to sell.

I just got done reading my daughter Amy's blog. And I must say that I feel her pain. She is lamenting the fact that people have NO IDEA what to charge for their own junk because of their misguided perception of what said junk is worth. How we over-estimate the value of our beloved belongings!

From the seller's perspective, I understand. There is nothing quite as humbling as taking two full weeks to debate whether or not to put your favorite shirt (of the past 4 years) on the garage sale heap only to discover that there is not a soul alive who will pay 25 cents for it. Seriously? I see it hanging there, all forlorn and unloved in my garage. I think I will just snatch it back into the comfort of my own closet again even if it doesn't fit...

Between customers today, I calculated the value of the clothes off my back, based on current garage sale rates:

-khaki shorts (worn three times counting today) $0.50
-white polo (worn twice, including today) $0.50
-leather flip flops (worn to a frazzle) $0.00
-underwear (you don't want to know) $0.00

This means that everything I have on my body is worth about a dollar--IF I can find a buyer, never mind that some of it was brand-new last month. According to how other sales went today, I'd guess the novel I am presently reading is worth 50 cents because it's hardcover and brand-new. The picture frames holding our family photos would bring about a dime apiece. The comforter on my bed--maybe a dollar--two if I could find the zipper case it came in and throw in the bedskirt, blanket, pillow shams and sheets. Our stereo could fetch $3 if I can prove it works perfectly. Each of our favorite DVDs are worth roughly $2. I might expect a dollar for my lightly-used blender, a dime for my trusty toaster, a quarter for my George Foreman. My good towels? Nothing.

On the other hand, someone was happy to haul away our monstrously heavy, 32-inch TV for free, along with our old dining room rug with gum in one corner--also free. This Saturday, we will put everything on the curb that did not sell the previous two days with a sign stating, "Help Yourself," and it will be humorous to watch. When we did this a couple years ago, some folks backed up to the curb, opened their trunk, and took EVERYTHING. Stuff that wouldn't sell for 5 cents was snapped up in a heartbeat when it was free.

I can't think of anything that will bring you back to reality faster and do more for your perspective on the value of material things than to price them and liquidate them from your garage. You will come quickly to the realization that the best of all you have...is WORTHLESS. Isn't that a cheery bit of information?

All in all, we had a pretty good day as sellers. We made $200 on stuff we aren't using that someone else [apparently] could. And we still have tomorrow (Fri), a prime garage-saling day with Free Saturday to look forward to as a grand finale. Whoo-hoo! My junk is your junk!! See you at the sale and...I'll see you at your garage next weekend!