The Garage Sale From HELL

By Jeannie Farmer and E. Thayne Smith

Inexperienced sellers and a host of wacky, weird and sometimes eccentric shoppers and buyers gather at a well-advertised garage sale to produce a series of humorous, entertaining and interesting situations, confrontations and news-making events. Chaotic predicaments join to cause traffic jams and attract law enforcement officials.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. Thayne Smith
• Release date: Mar 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463575147

Book preview

The Garage Sale From HELL

Jeannie Farmer & E. Thayne Smith

Copyright © 2019 Jeannie Farmer & E. Thayne Smith

All rights reserved.

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter One: The Modern-Day Sale

Chapter Two: Clara Roberts

Chapter Three: The Hoodlums

Chapter Four: The Explosion

Chapter Five: Earl Wilcox

Chapter Six: Spider Woman

Chapter Seven: Rock Lady

Chapter Eight: The Two Babes

Chapter Nine: Striking a Deal

Chapter Ten: The Moving Truck

Chapter Eleven: The Accident

Chapter Twelve: Ralph

Chapter Thirteen: Bad Luck Earl

Chapter Fourteen: The Missing Money Box

Chapter Fifteen: Day Two

Chapter Sixteen: The Barn Door

Chapter Seventeen: The Bra

Chapter Eighteen: The Flirt

Chapter Nineteen: Jim Wesson

Chapter Twenty: Poodle Lady

Chapter Twenty-One: The Thief

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Mouse Incident

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Antique Dealer

INTRODUCTION

History doesn’t record that Myles Standish, one of the leaders of the Plymouth Rock Colony in Massachusetts, was the inventor of an American event that is popularly known today as the garage sale.

It is recorded, however, that he was a timid romantic and possessed a horse trader mentality when it came to business dealings, the very essence of today’s garage sales enthusiasts.

Some writings hold that he established friendly and peaceful relations with the Nemasket Indians in the first months after the Mayflower landed at a slippery hand-hewn log dock. It’s believed the dock was later enlarged, refurbished and improved, to be towed northward for about 50 miles, by the Mayflower. There, it’s rumored, it’s legacy was enhanced when it played host to the famous Boston Tea Party.

It’s also said that Myles rode his trusty horse southward about 250 miles to join Dutch officials and become one of the prime movers in the purchase of Manhattan Island, now the core of the Big Apple we call New York City. It cost the immigrants the paltry sum of 24 strands of beads, plus some trinkets, black powder and a few muskets, all worth about 60 Dutch guilders or $1500 in today’s US currency. Some politicians say it was really no bargain, but that’s an arguable point.

That, of course, was long before former New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg initiated plans to spend millions on gun control throughout the United States. Under his grand plan, even historic muskets would be involved and taken from ownership of law-abiding citizens, and even collectors. Truth be known, he would probably include such things as tomahawks and knives in his control list.

Regardless, Standish was not of that ilk.

History notes that he was, however, the military adviser, with rank of captain, for the Plymouth Colony. He and his troops used knives, spears, rocks, tomahawks, muskets and other weapons of the day in a couple of infamous skirmishes with unfriendly Native Americans. Standish, lore of the day tells us, entered battle wielding a prized flint stone club (later called tomahawk) with his initials — M. S. — carved in the wooden handle.

With peace prevailing, he became a founder and one of the first settlers of the town of Duxbury, MA. Before moving, he discovered that he had a garage full of old cigars, pipes, leather boots and black powder guns, and sundry other items. He decided to sell most of them. Many of these, it’s rumored, were obtained from nearby Indian tribes for some beads left over from the Manhattan Island purchase, a little wampum and some firewater.

Some believe, in fact, that Myles scribbled in his notebook, while visiting New York, the recipe for making a Manhattan, and introduced it to friends throughout his state. It, of course, is a well-known and admired cocktail made of whiskey and vermouth, usually with a dash of bitters. Heaven knows it has been a popular libation with Massachusetts folks for many decades.

The visit with his Dutch friends in New York was not all pleasant, however. Invariably, Myles, newly widowed, was questioned about his asking his good friend and one-time roommate, John Alden, to propose to Priscilla Mullins on his behalf. Priscilla’s answer, it’s well-recorded, was, Why don’t you speak for yourself, John. He apparently did, and they were married shortly thereafter.

Myles, John and Priscilla remained friends, but some believe it caused Myles to drown his sorrows in Manhattans now and then, while frequenting local taverns.

On one occasion, while imbibing with a few friends, it was jokingly suggested that Alden, or someone, might assist Myles in approaching another well-known local damsel.

I’ll do it on my own the next time, Myles replied with sarcasm, and you can bet your sweet ass I’m not going to send John Alden to speak for me, after that deal with Priscilla.

Needing money to support his various escapades, Myles considered having a cash bar at his garage sale, thinking it would help draw big crowds and provide extra income. However, he found that local ordinances prohibited it. So, he opted, instead, to do some early-day advertising, with a classified ad in the local newspaper, erection of a few yard signs listing the event and his address and word of mouth among nearby residents.

On the thickest tree in the area, he posted a sign written by one of his Indian friends, Chief Hidden Good, telling all in the area to come to the very first garage sale in North America.

The Chief, a well-known outpost wheeler-dealer, as well as well-traveled angler, hunter and trapper, obliged while suggesting that Myles foot the bill to post more signs throughout the land north of Plymouth Rock and even in Nova Scotia.

There are a lot of rich natives up there across the border, and I know some in high places who would allow us to put up signs in their tepee yards, the chief offered.

Myles considered it for a few seconds, then declined.

Nah, he replied, I don’t want to get involved in Canadian politics. Besides, we’d have to go through customs on both sides of the border and that could lead to big problems and a lot of trouble on money exchanges.

Pondering the items being considered for sale, he decided to keep the well-worn tomahawk just in case of need for self-defense, concealed carry (easily hidden in a stout leather sheath on his belt, under his deer-skin jacket, or in a saddle bag) or to use in any future battles that might develop.

Being a politician, Myles had no trouble getting a concealed carry permit for the weapon from the local county clerk, since they were both of the same political party and he had publicly supported her election.

He had secured the club from the chief, paying him in full with a single strand of beads of questionable quality.

Wielding a sharp knife, he carved his initials — M.S. — in the well-worn handle. It wasn’t a particularly pretty tool, but being made of strong materials, it was probably quite functional. It consisted of a half-pound rounded river rock (shaped somewhat like a hatchet blade) wrapped in a sizable cut of split weeping willow wood and secured with multiple wraps of sinew, later known as rawhide. The material is widely used today in the making of leather clothing items and shoestrings for hunting boots, most of which can be easily obtained from well-known mass merchandise stores like Bass Pro Shops, Cabela’s, Walmart and many more.

The Chief, no doubt a dreamer as well as story teller, told Myles that he found the flint stone used in the tomahawk while fly-fishing for trout in the Allegheny, which he identified as a famous Pennsylvania fishing and canoeing stream.

He added that the same area was popular with tourists because they could find a lot of arrowheads, made of the same quality stone, in farmers’ plowed fields, after heavy rains.

Boasting of his angling prowess, he also told Myles the stream banks were replete with acres of switch grass (later called bamboo) that could be used to make prized fly rods, or with a bobber and trusty hook baited with a wiggly nightcrawler, for cane pole fishing.

In all probability, Myles carried the weapon in a fashionable deer hide saddle bag, but surely utilized a strong lanyard on it’s end to wrap around his wrist to insure against loss when using it for fighting or killing wild animals.

Little did he know that his tomahawk, or at least one with his initials, would someday — about 400 years later — be the center point of a future garage sale in the heart of North America.

CHAPTER ONE

THE MODERN-DAY SALE

Unfortunately, we planned for the sale to start on Friday the Thirteenth, a date that my wife, Sara and I, Michael J. McFarland II, selected — without due process of thinking — to stage the first garage sale of our experience.

We should have known better. Friday the Thirteenth is not exactly a lucky charm day for suspicious folks or tales of folklore.

Regardless, we decided to proceed as planned, offering a myriad of inoperable modern-day electronics, a few tools, some clothing, a lot of junk, worn furniture, some collectible knickknacks, considerable outdoor recreation items, a few prized antiques, and the tomahawk with the initials M.S. carved in it’s handle.

My forefathers believed that, somehow, the alleged Myles Standish tomahawk found it’s way to my family, to be handed down through several generations and finally to me. Authentic? We really don’t know. What’s it worth? That’s a good question, also.

Regardless, it was to be the centerpiece of the event, and the most pricey of all items on display. With pride, I put the rock hammer on a small table inside the garage. The table is covered with a camouflage cloth, which I think might enhance the unit’s appeal since this is popular hunting and outdoor recreation country. Next, I hang a light above it, to highlight its features. Then, I gleefully place a price of $500 on it, believing that it, without doubt in mind, is an antique. Well, at least I know it’s old. It may be worth a lot more, but I’d settle for that. I’m thinking some sharp antique dealer, or gung-ho hunter or weapons collector might drop by and jump at the chance to steal it for that price.

After the melancholy task of putting my father, Michael Joseph McFarland, into a retirement home, my wife talked me into doing this dubious event.

If anything bizarre and crazy was to happen, it certainly did at this undertaking.

I’m the outdoor columnist for our local newspaper, the Republic Enterprise. Recently, while sitting in my home office typing away on a column, I got a call from my baby sister telling me that she had to cancel her trip and wouldn’t be able to help with the garage sale.

Wouldn’t you know, Mike, that the flight from New York to Missouri has to be cancelled, she stated. My Stan, the boys and I have all come down with the flu, chills, fever and a lot of throwing up.

We had a short conversation talking about family and close friends, then I ask Agnes what things of mom and dad’s she’d like to have?

She expressed that she would cherish some old photos and other family memorabilia, then apologized again for not being able to help.

I offered my best wishes, and expressed hope that the gang would be feeling better soon. We said our good-byes with intention’s of keeping in touch.

Nervously, I wipe my sweaty brow and try to determine how I’m going to tell Sara about Agnes’ phone call. Now we’re stuck with this garage sale, without hoped-for help.

Looking at my watch, I see that it’s eleven-forty-three and almost time for lunch. Trying to dismiss thoughts about the sale, I put my hands behind my head, lean back in my chair and gaze out my office window.

Memories invade my mind about the time when dad and I first went fishing together. I was only five-years old. During the summer, dad, mom, Agnes and I would head to Uncle Jim’s cabin which was about sixty miles from New York City. It was a little hideaway in the woods—a rustic cabin that sat in a beautiful part of the forest and wasn’t too far from the peninsula where I learned to fish. Dad and I had many great fishing adventures at Greenwood Lake.

At the age of thirteen, I became interested in hunting. I presented the idea to him and with much persuasion, convinced him to join in this exciting sport.

Four years ago, my mother died from complications with Alzheimer’s disease. Then, only one month ago, my wife and I, with reluctance and sadness, had to put my dad into a retirement home. In anticipation, Sara and