Personal Narratives
Estate Sales are Emotionally Draining
They remind me of my mortality and my need to Swedish Death Clean
“Wanna come along?” my bibliophile husband asked me this morning.
He saw an ad for an estate sale and had hoped to find a rare book or two there.
But I had planned to support a student’s basketball game at the Y later that morning.
So my husband went alone.
I was a bit relieved that I wasn’t accompanying him.
The last estate sale I attended was in my neighborhood a few months before the pandemic.
That home belonged to a couple we didn’t know.
The elderly man had passed away, and on the day of the sale, his widow was already in Florida with one of her sons. They left the management of the asset liquidation to a trusted realtor who organized the estate sale.
My house sits on a little hill, which gives me a good street view. From my picture window, I could see streams of people making their way to the sale.
Some arrived in trucks, some in cars, and others walked. It had been at least a decade since I dropped by an estate sale. My curiosity was piqued. I joined the treasure hunters.
When I stepped into the house, sadness washed over me.
The deceased was a well-traveled man. He had many souvenirs and fine art from exotic places he had visited. Statues and antiques reflected his taste and interests. There were beautifully crafted chess sets and even a suit of armor.
He must have felt pride and excitement when he collected and displayed his treasures.
Did he think his children would enjoy or desire them after he passed on?
Maybe his offspring kept some choice ones. But many collectibles were clearly unwanted.
As I looked around, I saw trappings of his success- but in that moment, they all seemed hollow.
It was surreal to walk into a stranger’s home and see other strangers carelessly picking and fingering the tagged objects.
Of course, each object was meaningful only to the former owners.
Without the human narrative threading the objects into the cohesive life that the couple shared, the objects were just objects. Just soul-less unrelated objects of potential utility.
As I observed the movement of different people scrutinizing the heaped possessions, the futility of having too much stuff hit me.
“Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity” came to me.
I thought of my belongings and shuddered.
Walking into different rooms, I felt I was invading the private space of a couple I never knew.
I saw the dinnerware they ate from and entertained with. There were a few sets of pots and pans. The widow must have cooked a lot. Didn’t she need those pots now? Beautiful cloth napkins were piled on the oak dining table. Did they have a lot of fancy sit-down dinners? What got me were the many different seasonal paper napkins. The plastic bags they were in looked dull. Did she get those festive napkins at off-season sales but was reluctant to use them? Why was she saving them?
I peeked into the bedroom. There were beautiful evening gowns and formal suits. There were intimate items like stockings. Jewelry! Did he get many of those pieces for her? Why were they left behind? Handkerchiefs! So elegant and pretty. And in the corner were gift bags — a whole box of used gift bags that was never recycled.
Everything in that room was also loudly labeled. All cried, “Buy me!”
That was their bedroom. A sanctuary from the world. But it was anything like that now as drawers were roughly pulled, and every private nook was nonchalantly examined.
Master bedrooms are sacrosanct to me. I felt violated for them.
After meandering a bit more, I was too overwhelmed to continue the hunt.
But my eye did catch a small end table. The legs were crafted from black metal, and the square top was made of a lovely blue glass. It also had a beautiful butterfly inlay. It was tagged for $10. They told me $8 was fine.
As I left the sale, my emotions were raw.
I was happy to have snagged that perfect table — something I needed! I was glad the bereaved family could make some money from the sale and avoid the complicated emotions of cleaning the house alone. It was peachy, too, that many in the community got a piece of something they could use or enjoy. And the dealers who came in their trucks would make a tidy profit. It was a win-win for all.
But I also felt weird and sad.
I couldn’t help thinking how many items in the house represented dreams -fulfilled and unfulfilled.
But those dreams didn’t matter now. The dreamer was no longer there.
I took my time walking up the long driveway to my front door; thoughts of my mortality shadowed me. I wasn’t afraid of dying as much as what it would be like if/when my own home had to undergo a sale like that.
An Epiphany
That was also the day I decided to declutter seriously. To Swedish death clean.
I want to spare my kids from the emotional toil of going through my redundant stuff or allowing strangers to rummage through all their parents’ possessions. I can start passing my unused effects and collections to those who will value them while I am still alive. I don’t have to box them in the attic or stuff them in my cabinets.
Such sales are emotionally too draining for me, even if you can get fantastic deals from them.
(Incidentally, my husband didn’t find any books at the sale. All the “good stuff” were sold last week!)