Yard Sale
A tip from your good friend Jon, do not attempt to stage a yard sale in the dead of winter. While this might be obvious advice to most of you, first time front yard vendors like me and my family could have benefited from a recommendation of this kind prior to emptying the contents of our basement on our lawn.

Sincere in our efforts, we decided that the unholy clutter which had swallowed our bottom floor needed to be eradicated before our foundation began to sink. Once swept of unwanted items, the space could serve as a haven for the wayward teenagers who often descend on our den, banishing Janet and I to the chilly confines of the living room.

Whether they are channeling Stevie Ray Vaughn on Guitar Hero or mowing down an online group of foul mouthed hooligans on Halo 2, there is no shortage of noise, food consumption and food related debris left in their wake. Janet and I thought that if perhaps these shenanigans took place below ground we might salvage our sanity for our senior years and remain in the serenity of the den until Will goes off to college or when we deposit his hinny on the curb if he doesn't go to college, which ever comes first. Hence the basement conversion project was born.

First came the excavation stage. Will and Janet initiated a search and destroy mission, separating the good junk from the bad junk. Limbless Power Ranger figures were cast in the pit of no return, and a Revolutionary War fort made out of Popsicle sticks became fireplace fodder. In a matter of days this archeological crew was able to unearth what looked like carpeting covering our lost basement floor. Who knew?

Stage two involved schlepping our quality junk to the front of the house, pricing each item and greeting the masses who were sure to come. Yours truly would be enjoying a busman's holiday, serving as the main sales point of contact. My son and his helpful friend Chris papered the neighborhood with home-made advertisements. Janet, who did the lion's share of the pre-sale work would function as inventory manager, re-stocking as goods as they flew off of the tables. We were ready for the onslaught!

As it turned out, our goods were flying off of the table all right, but not selling, the movement was due to a twenty mile per hour easterly gale and temperatures threatening the frost point. In all, our enterprise netted around $83.00, thanks to some hard-boiled, die-hard yard sale mavens who braved the elements in search of a bargain and our benevolent neighbor who took pity upon us and purchased some old toys for her young boys.

Left were a large amount of remnants of my son's youth, a couple of pristine exercise bikes, an equally well preserved treadmill (my plans of building a healthy body were lost sometime during the Reagan administration) and a few odds and ends. Returning these treasures to the cellar was not an option due to the pending construction of Will's new playhouse, leaving us in a bit of a pickle. Following a brief discussion (In such family discussions my wife and son play the part of the hammer and I reprise my reoccurring role as the nail) it was decided that we would rent a storage space to house these unwanted, yet valuable items.

For those who haven't had the pleasure of renting a small metal room in Roanoke, let me tell you it is an experience. The amount of paperwork necessary to execute this transaction rivals that of Donald Trump's standard pre-nuptial agreement. Included in the service pact is a laundry list of do's and don'ts for renters. There are a few do's and volumes of don'ts, including a clause prohibiting the renter from storing any living being alive or dead in the unit. Upon, hearing this rule my wife asked for a clarification, wondering aloud if a deceased husband cooling in a freezer might qualify as a violation of that stipulation. The three women present were enjoying a good laugh as I surveyed the property for a friendly witness.

When I returned home (in an unfrozen state) I checked the Internet for articles about bodies which had been recovered from storage spaces. There were 1,260,000 entries. Perhaps these provisions set forth in the rental contact are merely suggestions to their clientele, rules of thumb as it were, not as regularly policed as their other stead-fast requirements.

If my byline should suddenly disappear from these pages, you might find me in a small storage depot on Peters Creek Road developing some frost on my salt and pepper beard.
If you have easy access to a crow bar and a hairdryer please tote them along, there's a free
like new treadmill in it for you if you arrive before I glaze over.