Bob's Estate Sale

I like to visit estate sales more than yard sales. I rarely buy anything at either of them but I like to look around. But it’s the estate sale I lean towards. In a yard sale, you only see what they want you to see, piled on a table in their driveway.

But at an estate sale you get a peek into a life that someone has lived; their “remains.”

So when I saw the Estate Sale sign on my may home from the grocery store, I followed the arrows.

Every house has a “feeling” about it and this one felt lonely. Even with people in every room.

The sofa and outdated oak coffee table were bland. No warmth that would make you want to sit down. The small dining room and kitchen were one big space with the kitchen counter dividing them. All the counters and table were covered with the contents of the kitchen cabinets. Lots of unmatched wine glasses; one whole counter full of just wine glasses. The counter by the sink held coffee mugs.

Coffee mugs are “telling.” Look at your coffee mugs and they tell a story about you. There were three or four mugs, all with the name Bob on them. Along with a small bowl that said “Bob’s Snacks” on the side. Aahh, so Bob lived here. Another mug said something about the bachelor’s life. Bob was single but another mug said “World’s greatest grandpa.” That and a set of china with “grandmotherly” pink roses suggested that he wasn’t always alone. His main dinner set was just plain white stoneware. No pattern, no personality, just emptiness.

The pink rose dinnerware set was shiny, almost new looking. I got the feeling they had been put away years ago, hidden high and unused on a shelf. The everyday set was dull from the many knife and fork marks. I imagine Bob pulling those dreary plates out at each meal and eating in silence.

The master bedroom has its own story. The towels were a masculine navy or burgundy. A few bottles of aftershave were on the sink with worn washcloths and everyday bathroom “things” like cotton swabs, a spare pack of shower curtain rings and an unopened bag of cough drops.

Bob likes shoes. And he had good taste. All size 11 although inexplicable there was one size 12. Many of the shoes hardly looked worn including the size 12’s. Beautiful leather expensive looking dress shoes including several pair of woven leather huaraches. Did Bob vacation in Mexico? Or just dream about it?

Bob’s office was filled with books and DVDs. Most of Bob’s books were hard backs. Either he liked to buy them when they first came out or he had an “only the best” mindset and paperbacks wouldn’t do. There was a book on caring for cats. There was no sign of a cat [not even a whiff] in the house. No litter box, scooper or spare cat litter in the garage. Another book was about dogs – again, no sign of dog. No dog bed, spare collars, or toys. This is a puzzle into Bob’s life.

There was a copy of Sarah Palin’s Going Rogue and one on Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. Not many fiction. One telling book – which was a paperback – Dating Over 50. I wonder if Bob got any good advice from it. All of the rooms in the house clearly belonged to Bob. There was no sign of anyone else having lived there for a very long time except for that rose patterned china set.

Throughout the house were framed posters – all of them very sexy women. One was a silhouette similar to the bumper sticker you see on the back of some semi-trucks. Another was just a high-heeled, stockinged leg. It reminded me of that lamp in the Christmas Story movie except this was a photo of a real woman. There was also a box of Playboy magazines. Someone [a man] was going through them. I didn’t pay any attention if he bought any.

All of these things seemed from a life long ago. There were signs of the last years of his life. No dating, not pets, no Playboys. A pair of crutches, a walker and a large package of Depends. Bob’s life had wound down.

I once visited an estate sale years ago in which the house was still alive even though the owner’s weren’t. I can’t explain it except it was filled with the memories of a life well-lived. Souvenirs from trips, family photos, shoes that had been worn, not left in a closet. I pulled a book from their bookshelf on traveling to Paris. Stuck in its pages were two ticket stubs from the flight. They hadn’t just dream about Paris. They went there.

There was something lonely about Bob’s house and I surmise, Bob’s life. As I pulled out of the driveway, I wondered if the neighbors had visited. Did they know him? Would they say kind things about him? Will his grandchildren miss him? How old was that mug? Do they even know him?

I didn’t buy anything – but I won’t forget Bob, even though I never met him.