A typical summer Saturday morning during the first 15 years of my life always began the same way. No matter where we lived or what kind of car we drove. My father would brew coffee and then tell me to “get a move on.” Now, most kids would complain and whine and moan — and I did — but I was not being told to do chores. No. I was being told to get in the car at the ungodly hour of 6 am so we could go yard saling.
Yard sales are where my father lives and breathes. If you go into his garage, which is really a neat version of a “Hoarders” home, you will find boxes and stacks of all of his yard sale finds. Walk into my parent’s home, and you will enter a very tidy suburban home. Everything perfectly clean and in its proper place. However, once you enter the basement or the garage, you enter, the “junk” zone. Alternatively, this could be called the “collectible” zone. My father still has Wheaties boxes that you are not allowed to open or eat the cereal out of because Cal Ripken Jr. is on the front.