Christmas Junking

Last week, just as Katie and I were about to leave for an estate sale, Boomerang Boy sauntered in with a request. “I need a jackass Christmas sweater for the P’s party,” he announced. “Something tacky.” Katie and I exchanged a knowing nod. “We’re on it,” Katie assured him. Thirty minutes later, we were at the sale. The late home-owner had been in her house for over sixty years. From the amount of mildew, dust and debris, we estimated it had last been cleaned sometime in the Nixon administration. Katie was appalled. My daughter is neat, orderly, organized. We fear it’s some sort of sleeper gene. I was thrilled. For you see, vintage treasure-seekers, mildew, dust and debris are the sure signs of a packrat. What you want to see at a good estate sale is a pile of old boxes and rotted army foot-lockers and broken furniture at the curb. What you do not want to see is a newly-mopped floor and a plastic bin full of eight-track tapes. Or a family member with a clipboard and a list of prices. Or, Gawd forbid, the latest Kovel’s price-guide in hand. When you approach an estate sale house, it’s always good to see more piles–maybe some rusty lawn furniture or crusty concrete planters or garden urns. We saw these things and more at last week’s sale. The house was a festival of what-nots, geegaws, whimdoodles, tchtoskes, flotsam and jetsam. Katie’s upper-lip curled. Her nostrils flared at the merest hint of mold. I, on the other hand, nearly leapt for joy, despite the cold I’d picked up in New York. We made our way upstairs. And sure enough, heaped on a bed amidst a mountain of clothing and household linens, we found the perfect vintage Christmas sweater. Three perfect sweaters, to be exact. Two of them were identical, intricate patterns of downhill skiiers, expertly executed, but in an unfortunate cheesey synthetic yarn. The third, green sweater, was really lovely, in a good quality yarn. All for the bargain price of five bucks. Downstairs, as we were paying for your goodies, the deceased’s son nodded approvingly. “My mom knit those sweaters for me,” he told us. “She loved to knit.” He, apparently, did not love her enough to keep the fruits of all those labors, but never mind. To the victors go the spoils. Afterwards, Katie took her outraged sensibilities and inflamed sinuses to bed. And Andy and his best buddies Andrew, Kevin and Michael all wore their “jackass” Christmas togs to the P’s party. Unfortunately, only Andy and Andrew were svelte enough to fit into the vintage sweaters. In fact, if you look closely, you’ll see that Andrew is wearing his red sweater under the green one. Michael did fit into a “jackass” plaid sportcoat his mom and I picked up for him at an earlier estate sale, and Kevin wore his own sweater. Pictured above are the four amigos, all friends since diaper days, enjoying some Christmas libations.