Everyone, including me, complained about our long dreary winter. We have nothing to whine about now. Robins are singing. Blue Jays are squawking. The sun stays up long enough to point out the dust in my west-facing living areas. It is time to open windows and begin a good spring cleaning. When my doorbell rang the other day and two neighbors handed me a flyer heralding another spring harbinger—the upcoming neighborhood garage sale—it was just the impetus I needed. A reason to clean drawers and closets and tackle a few tubs in the basement.
     A number of years ago, not long after we moved here, we had our first neighborhood garage sale. Thinking I'd gotten rid of everything we didn't need before we relocated, I was amazed to find out how much stuff I had for that sale. The night before it began, we went next door and checked out our neighbors' wares. Her stuff looked good. Her pricing was better than mine, too. I went home and slashed a few of my items to clearance status. Not low enough, for one patron, though. My experience with her should be garage sale rule number one: If you are personally attached to something, don't sell it in your driveway. When the woman offered three dollars for the king-sized comforter my mother (then, recently deceased) had helped me choose, I wanted to smack her. Or cry.
     Many years before that, I had a spring sale and included my college-aged daughter's formals from high school proms and homecoming dances. One sweet little woman (she looked like Betty White of TV's Golden Girls) asked if she could take a dress to her granddaughter to see how it fit her. I explained I'd had the gowns cleaned and wouldn't be able to sell it if she were to bring it back looking like it had been worn. She asked to use my telephone. (This was before cell phones and even portable home phones.) Since I was the only one home, I was faced with the dilemma of taking her inside, leaving my valuable merchandise unattended in the garage, or allowing the woman to go into my house by herself. Being a fan of mysteries and police dramas, I knew where either choice could lead. I said no. She vowed to be back. I never saw her again.
     Years before that, when my children were very young, I had my first at-home sale. A friend came up with the idea and assured me she had so much stuff we would have the biggest and best sale ever. At the last minute, she backed out. My husband had already put up signs in the neighborhood and strung a line of brightly colored flags around the yard. I had placed an ad in the newspaper. My offerings were paltry, but I lugged the boxes of books, knick-knacks and clothes outside. I tied rope between two trees and hung my too-small dresses and my husband's high school sweaters. More than a few customers exclaimed it looked like they had gotten there too late because everything was so picked over. I didn't argue.
     Previous experience tells me my lack of success with sales conducted on my home turf should dissuade me from trying again. It's such a good excuse to get rid of things, though. Maybe I can compromise. Get things boxed and bagged and out to the garage. Then, pray the patron saint of clean garages makes them disappear. Pouf!