To The Markets We Go

I’m sure I’ve written about my love of de-cluttering several times already. When I was a child, a favourite past-time was sorting through cupboards. Freakish behaviour, I know. But, had I known a professional organiser was to become a legit occupation, I might have taken a different career path.

Instead, I stick to my own patch, decluttering everyone’s belongings. Part of the joy is seeing unused items going to a new, appreciative home and so, when I was younger I would constantly hold garage sales.

Strangely, in contrast I also enjoyed attending them. Back then I would trawl through the garage sales in Friday night’s paper, highlighting addresses. The next morning, at the crack of dawn, we would bung our toddler in the car, still in his dressing down, peanut butter toast in hand, and head to our first destination. 

It was competitive out there, I learnt, especially with antique dealers and second hand shop owners. One elderly man, in particular, would scream up to the address, leap out of his vehicle and, leaving the engine running, bolt up the drive at a speed unexpected of someone his age, leaving the car door flung open in his wake. Usually, within seconds, he would return at the same pace and tear off to the next address before he’d even shut his door.

I didn’t take it that seriously but it was a favourite Saturday morning past-time for a while. I subsequently learnt that trawling through other people’s treasures was not conducive to keeping my own abode minimalistic so stuck to my own garage sales and then I discovered selling at the markets. But after a fruitless wet Saturday where I returned home with most of my junk and think I actually lost money by the time I paid for the site, I decided to call it quits.

Until last weekend. I decided enough was enough with the pile of toys and bric-a-brac I’d been adding to in the garage over the years so, like childbirth, I pushed aside the last memory and went back for more.

With sport consuming most of Saturday, our local markets weren’t an option so, instead, we headed up to Tikipunga the following day. It was driving through the darkness at some godforsaken hour with the skies beginning to open up, that I began to question my sanity. This was new territory and would anyone even be there?

However, when we reached our destination it became clear I’d made the right choice. The rain hadn’t reached Tikipunga and, as I began to unload the car, a queue of early risers stood peering with their torches to check out the newbies’ wares. I was still unloading when the bartering started.

The kids, still sleepy, moped around like muppets at first until they noticed their toys beginning to sell, then sprang into action taking over the sale - lest a sibling pocket their money. It was pleasing to see their class maths equations coming to life as they worked out change.

As the sun rose, peoples’ faces became visible and so, unfortunately, did the goods of fellow site holders. It wasn’t long before the kids discovered we were stationed next to a fidget spinner stand and, as the money rolled in, they were eagerly counting it to see if they had enough for their eyed prize.

The Tikipunga markets were thriving and still had a steady flow after 10am but, alas, the kids had tired of being sales people and we had to go.

With heavy pockets – not from cash, but from fidget spinners and some painted rocks Miss Eight had purchased – and an emptier car, we headed home, satisfied all round.

And I admit, I’ve already got a steadily-mounting pile in the garage ready for next time.