Cash Instead of Trash

My mother watched in horror what happened after the elderly couple that lived next door to her died within months of each other. Their daughter filled up a truck-sized dumpster with what looked like the entire contents of the house and hauled it all away as trash. My mother was so traumatized by the sight, I promised her I’d never empty the contents of her house into a giant dumpster and haul it all away as trash.

I’ve seen examples of homes so trashy that trashing the entire contents may be the best solution, but neither the neighbors’ nor my mother’s house fit that description. Estate sales turn possessions into cash instead of trash.

Professionals who handle the sale in return for a percentage of what’s sold can be invaluable. Some estate salespersons only handle sales that clear out everything—even what’s fastened down—to the bare walls. Others are willing to downsize. That’s what I need, since I live in the house and need to be able to continue to live comfortably.

When I hired a woman to manage my estate sale last year, I told her I wanted to sell about half of what was in the living room, kitchen, and garage, and about a quarter of the other rooms. At first she appeared to be concerned about having enough to sell, but by the time the living room, kitchen, and backyard were set up for the sale, all available space was used. Other rooms remained stuffed with things not for sale, or not appraised yet. The saleswoman finally said, “Just stop!” even as I kept bringing out more things.

Having dozens of strangers in my house while COVID raged was a major concern. I told the saleswoman I wanted customers to wear facemasks and gloves, but the notice she sent out mentioned masks but not gloves. I handed out all the disposable gloves I had, still had bare-handed people handling multiple surfaces, while some people waltzed in bare-faced and had to be admonished about masks, too. It was up to me to sanitize surfaces afterward.

I had a heart for what I was selling, but the public was another matter. One genius ripped paving stones out of the ground, and I think those paving stones marked some cat graves—and I’ve never been able to get the stones back in the exact places they were. People broke up sets, or tried to talk me into unbolting a chandelier from the ceiling. One couple wanted to buy an empty pot—the pot that was supposed to contain a mysteriously vanished cactus, a gift from a friend. The three of us searched in vain for the cactus, and I finally decided to just let them buy the pot. Weeks later I found the cactus, dead, chucked deep in some bushes.

Enough of the downside, what I sold freed up much-needed space and moved some things I was glad to see go. Enough money was made to pay for an urgently needed exterior paint job. I’m currently in the middle of another estate sale, excavating another layer of what I’ve inherited.