by Holly Howley

Growing up, most Saturdays my mother and I could be found anywhere old, sometimes valuable (but often times not) stuff was being sold. She treasured the playful glow of pink and green Depression glass and the smell of aging wood. I was lukewarm on all of it.

I marvel at the morning - the little driveway party - where I have met people I might never have happened on otherwise. And most everything is sold, except for a few odd pieces and my dresser.

Holly Howley is a writer living in Glastonbury, Connecticut with her husband and two young sons. Her everyday essays can be found in many regional publications. She can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

photo courtesy of Howley.

Until years later, a long way from family and the potential windfall of hand-me-downs, I slowly began to appreciate the sentimentality of items with history. Joining the other wide-eyed hunters suddenly felt life-embracing. Like the table I discovered today, might be part of my larger tomorrow.

I remember a summer long hunt for a dresser. My apartment was a small studio space in a quaint seaside town. Square footage and money were tight. So for several consecutive Saturdays, I rummaged and haggled, finally finding my piece. A simple medium brown dresser with brass pulls and a hatbox top. The owner was more than happy to shave some off the price, as if to say, "take the thing!" And so I did.

It is now twelve years, a husband, house and two children later and despite the warnings of those around me, I am having my very own garage sale. As I finish preparations, my first patron arrives.

"Is everything out?" she asks impatiently. "Pretty much" I respond as my customer flees, speeding off in her compact car with the intensity of a missile closing in on its target. Everything is out, nothing has been purchased and already my sale is a disappointment.

I'm alone again trying to view my junk with an objective eye. The "candelabra" I bought for my first dinner party. Wedding gifts, the kind that never quite make it out of the box. Toys, shoes, clothes, books, curtains, fabric and a fondue pot. A large horizontal bookshelf, cedar chest, random chairs and the dresser. My first apartment purchase. The only dresser I'd ever used since leaving my childhood home until just a couple of months ago when my husband and I purchased our own. The kind formidable grown-ups use with a mirror and all. My sale may not be the priceless china for a dollar event that regulars dream about, but it is at least worthy I tell myself as the next round of people arrive.

For the next few hours a steady stream of people make their way up our driveway. There's the guy who after talking my ear off on topics ranging from people in my neighborhood to his ex-wife's beach house, offers me a dollar for an armload of loot.

And the woman who motions me over to an embarrassingly weedy section of the yard to ask if she can take a root from my tulip tree. "My what?" I say in disbelief. She explains that she is painstakingly trying to recreate the original landscape at her two hundred year old New England farmhouse. I am more than happy to hand over my weed, content to know it is going to a much better home.

As people begin to thin, I marvel at the morning - the little driveway party - where I have met people I might never have happened on otherwise. And most everything is sold, except for a few odd pieces and my dresser.

Suddenly a car pulls into our driveway. It is the first time anyone has actually driven in rather than parking on the street. I am caught a little off guard until I see a couple in their eighties.

"Hello" the man bellows as if I am a longtime friend. "Thanks for coming" I start to say, but am interrupted. "How much for the dresser?" the woman excitedly asks. "Um, forty, I think is what I have on it," suddenly hoping my noncommittal tone might dissuade her interest. "We'll take it." Before long, the car is backed fully up the driveway.

My dresser. Until now I hadn't thought much about how it would feel to see it leave. As its new owner carefully writes out a check, I fight back the embarrassment of not really wanting to hand it over. I eye the piece one last time and then my dresser is gone.

It has been a morning of moments, but none like this one. I can't tell if I am mourning my youth or just plain sad to see the dresser go. I have spent so many years stuffing clothes into the drawers, needing more space, I should be more than happy to send it on its way. Instead I feel a little melancholy. Like the sale and my life might be moving a little too fast.

As I sit and stare at the now near empty garage, I think of my dresser and the little studio apartment. Of all the treasures along the way. And I am grateful. To be one of the hunters. Wide-eyed and ready. For the next great find right around the corner.