Memories of Worth

Yardsaling (that seems to be the way one would spell it) is an interesting experiance. Not that I've never done it before; it just seems different now. The last time we really and truly had a big yardsale was when we moved up here to Alaska from Susanville (CA)... about twelve years ago. So, I guess it's not really a surprise that my perspective of it has changed.

I can remember being eight, setting up my little blanket out under our great big tree in the front yard, and carefully arranging all of the little items I'd decided to sell. I even had tags by everything to say how much it was. An old toothbrush, some kind of little plastic dog, a very pretty costume necklace with pink plastic gems, and lots of ribbons are the things that stick in my mind when I think about it. That and the excitement. We were moving, and I was going to help! I dug around in the bottom of my toychest for little things I thought someone might want. I was going to make soooo much money to help us all get to Alaska... maybe even ten whole dollars! O.O

I didn't care about what was leaving, and the things that we were leaving behind. I was just so wrapped up in the fact that we were going. Well, now I'm all grown up and things are a little different.

I'm still excited to be moving, back to where our family is. I've really missed them. It's exciting to be starting all new down there... but this time I'm leaving a lot more behind. Eight to twenty is a HUGE chunk of your life. This move not only came with more emotional attachments, but a lot more baggage to be shed as well.

Yesterday afternoon, while I was sitting out with my Mom, it was so strange to watch people looking through all of our stuff. I thought, "It's like they're poking through twelve years of memories." And most of them weren't too excited about it really. It made me sort of mad, that they didn't seem to want any of the little things that we had collected over the years. And some of them acted like our prices were way high. One whole dollar each for paperback books that had been loved and cherished and read over and over? Ten dollars for a pretty lamp that had held back the frightful flights of over-active imagination for a young girl of 13? Outrageous! How could they turn up their noses at such treasures?

And then I felt sort of strange for feeling mad because, well, HOW could they know the wealth of special memories they were getting with almost every single thing out there? All they could see were the THINGS. Even if I could manage to somehow package all those memories up with each stuffed bear or necklace, they still wouldn't be worth as much to others as they are to me.

Worth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

Luckily memories of worth aren't about things, but about people and hearts. So, no matter what happens to our twelve years worth of junk, the memories will always be mine. I'm going to remember that, remember all the special things I'm KEEPING, and also try very hard to remember an eight year old's love of adventure and change when we put out the yardsaling signs again next weekend.