early birds.

I don't like to play the early bird. Half of the yard sale ads on CraigsList say "NO EARLY BIRDS," as if the people who tend toward that behavior gave a crap. Well, I don't know. I've never talked to a self-professed early bird. Surely they know it's rude and despised, so why do they do it? Because it works, I suppose. Even the people who say they won't tolerate any shoppers before their clocks hit 8:00 AM go ahead and allow people to buy stuff at 7:45. They're up, they're ready, why not go ahead and get rid of some of their stock?

But I've never done that. I always assume that a sale opens when the ad says it opens, and I don't show up before that time. I don't much see the point. I assume it's a stuff-related attitude: must get the good stuff. But I always find plenty of stuff, so I don't bother. It goes along with my belief that you don't gain much by putting in the effort to be at a yard sale when it first starts. Why would I waste time waiting for a sale to open when I could be either asleep or at another sale that already opened?

But anyway, I was an accidental early bird last Saturday. I saw a sign for an estate sale that was not on my list, and so I veered suddenly off the road (good yard sale cars have a tight turning radius, ample storage room, and nimble steering). When I pulled up to the house, I saw a dozen people standing in a line going up to the front door. The sale didn't start for another eight minutes. The next sale on my list was several miles away, and it wasn't worth it to drive there and then come back here, so I decided to wait. I took my place in line, milling around in the front yard, admiring the landscaping and looking up expectantly every time I heard something that sounded like a door opening.

I've been doing this hobby for too long not to have waited in line before. The Humane Society in Boone used to put on a legendary sale at the National Guard Armory every year. My boyfriend at the time and I would get there fifteen minutes before the sale opened and get in a line that was already fifty feet long. As we waited, chatting up line neighbors as if we wouldn't fight them to the death for a vintage lamp, sale volunteers would pass out maps of the sale. We'd plot out our course of action - first hit the kitchenware then on to the furniture, glance through accessories on the way to the clothes, and finally books and electronics.

I would never miss that sale, just because it seemed like required attendance for someone like me. But at the same time, I hated it a little bit. There were so many people, and the atmosphere was of desperation, as if any of it mattered. None of us needed any of this crap, and there was plenty to go around. But I went, and I got some good stuff before the crowd-induced anxiety overcame me and I was forced to flee. Then I went back the next day for the stuff-a-bag time.

I'd forgotten all about that until Saturday, as I waited in that much-smaller line and did a little people watching. I tried to figure out what these people were there for. Antique dealers, hobbyists, book resellers? If someone came and handed out maps, where would they start? For that matter, where would I start?

The door opened, and someone made an announcement about prices and being careful on the stairs. Having never been at an estate sale when it opened, I wasn't sure if it was customary to make a speech at the beginning. Then we filed in, a man three places ahead of me asking where the books were. "Filed in" implies patient and orderly, and while it was orderly enough, some of the people seemed to be barely containing the urge to break into a run. I took a right when I entered, just because it seemed like a good idea. I was in a bedroom, where purses and scarves were stacked on a dresser. Behind me, another woman came in and immediately headed for the closet. Clearly, she would have circled the section on the map labeled "Old Lady Clothes." I felt a momentary panic: the sale just started, my competition was already out there, examining the stationery collection and here I was wasting time on scarves. I DON'T EVEN WEAR SCARVES!!! Then I realized that I'm likely the only Stationery Lady in town, since I can usually still find some to buy when everything has been marked to half price. Even when you don't subscribe to the early bird mentality, sometimes you get caught up in the mob.

So I forced myself to be zen about it, and I calmly looked through the purses: a couple of them were pretty neat, particularly the brown suede one, though nothing I wanted at that price. I glanced through the closet, then hit the next room (living room) and the next (kitchen), going at my own pace. I found the stationery collection, a quart-sized ziplock baggie full of mismatched invitations and birthday cards bought in bulk. I didn't even buy it. I got some books, a journal, and a surge protector, paid $5.50 and went on my way. I was reminded why even though I would call myself a hard-core yard saler, I don't see any need to camp out on doorsteps.

Here's the thing: every great find I've ever found at a yard sale has seemed serendipitous. I mean, these people bought something maybe years and years ago, and they just happened to decide they were done with it and no one else had wanted it yet, but there it sat waiting for me to come along and declare it to be Just What I've Always Wanted. One of the things that I like so much about having secondhand possessions is the sense of history, the path each one took to end up sitting at my house. Really, everything that ever happens is like this - the amazing series of coincidences that have to line up just right for us to meet the person we'll fall in love with or to find our dream house or to die in a terrible baking accident (it works for bad things, too). Considering how blase I am about the idea of soul mates, it seems a little silly for me to romanticize the finding of stuff.

But there it is, and that's why I'm not an early bird. I'm sure there are things that I would have bought had I been there in time, and on the rare times when I saw whatever it was, amazing but out of my reach, I mourned just a little bit. But then I shrugged and figured it wasn't meant to be.