Scattered thunderstorms during the evening. Partly cloudy skies after midnight. Low around 65F. Winds light and variable. Chance of rain 50%..

Scattered thunderstorms during the evening. Partly cloudy skies after midnight. Low around 65F. Winds light and variable. Chance of rain 50%.

My wife is a yard sale junkie. She loves anything vintage. She finds me more attractive now that my hair is more salt than pepper. Every Saturday we wake up early and hit the garage sale circuit. Like clockwork, I pull up to a sale and she excitedly screams, “Let me out!” as I try to stop the car before her feet hit the pavement.

Drinking whiskey and yard sales are an acquired taste. I was part of that group that thought, “why am I going to pay for someone else’s crap that I’ll end up just moving it from their yard to our curb for our trash man to haul away?”

But after 25 years of marriage and thousands of yard sales, I’ve become the Fred Sanford of New England. Bah-da-Dah-dah.

As a kid, I remember being in Maine and thinking yard sales were just for grandmas to buy trinkets for a nickel. (You better get 10 years outta that vacuum cleaner if you spent a dime.)

It’s the woman in the family who almost always runs the sales while the grumpy guy acts like he’s pained to be there. Until the cash is pulled out, then he magically appears in front of you ready for business.

New England is a hotbed of hidden treasures that are well preserved in countless cluttered attics. The old-timer Yankees, or as my daddy called them, the “no-calluses-on-hands crowd,” are my favorites.

They have incredible multi-generational collections and they act like money means nothing. “Just name your price.” OK, the 18th century writing table with the engraving Ben F. for 3 bucks sounds swell.

(On a side note, I bought an old wooden commode last week. So if the plumbing goes down in your neighborhood, I’m renting it out in 7-minute intervals.)

Meanwhile, the younger set who hosts yard sales believe their pile of toothpicks purchased at IKEA has somehow increased in value. That red vase you got from Home Goods will never beat an antique that’s stood the test of time. It’s essentially a glorified Solo Cup.

My favorite line is, “Well I paid $500 for it, but I’ll give it to you for $450.” So, just because I pulled up to your home, it’s now my fiscal responsibility to cover all the bad financial decisions you’ve made in your entire life?

Those properties you bought in Detroit because you were so sure there was no way the property values could go even lower. To whom should I make the check out? Yeah, because I’m here to make you whole again.

Some yard sales are the pushing of the big red button. You know when you get nervous about finances and you tell your spouse, “We can always have a yard sale and sell all our stuff if things get really bad.” Your front door is for sale?

Many sales are held after the last parent passes away. The children often eulogize their parents to strangers at these events without even realizing it and it can be quite touching.

Hearing how their father liked to collect this, or how their mother kept that over her kitchen window for 50 years. Those stories tug at my heartstrings. That’s sweet, but will you take a dollar for that kitchen clock and two bucks for the collection of sea captain bossuns?

You can tell if the kids had “issues” with their parents by how they describe the stuff. “That old bureau never supported my creative side.” Or, “That lamp always made me feel guilty about everything!”

At one sale, a shotgun was among the merchandise and was just sitting on a table. The owner said we could “go out back and shoot it to try it out, if we want.” No thank you. Honey, start the car.

There are regulars we see each week. It gets competitive and I had a nemesis. An older guy who was looking for sports stuff like me.

No fist bumps or hugs when we saw each other. Old-time sports rivals. Never said a word to him. He died and his wife had a yard sale. I ended up buying lots of the stuff he beat me to at a reduced price. I guess I win … for now.

A few weeks ago, we were in Vermont to visit my wife’s best friend and she drove us around to yard sales. One was an old farmhouse loaded with stuff. As she drove up to park, I opened the door and fell flat on my face. Stupid me, I forgot to yell, “Let me out!”

Scott Kerman is a Methuen native and host of The Grandstanders Live! He can be reached at kermanscott@gmail.com.

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