I HAD woken during the night, my mind buzzing with thoughts of farm clearing sales, farming expos, and autumn festivals.
A full and exciting few days were on the horizon...
Clearing sales, particularly local ones, are always an event.
I got there fifteen minutes after starting time, but despite this, cars were already leaving—no doubt en route to another sale.
More cars were heading up the driveway, and at the top, another twenty or so vehicles were parked as their owners desperately picked through the amazing bargains to be had.
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I narrowly missed out on a bucket of new gripples that were only $10, but this only spurred me on to greater things!
I managed to pick up an unopened packet of angle grinder discs and whipper snipper cord for $3, a bag of farm gate hardware for $10, a ladder – because you can never have too many, and—my crowning achievement—a very large ship’s bell (for future use as a doorbell?).
Because who doesn’t need a massively heavy brass bell, the weight of which may very well bring down the back wall of the house?!
Of course, you can’t go to these events without meeting all your friends and neighbors.
Within minutes, I’d bumped into the Jones, who assured me they were just looking as they clutched an armful of assorted chains and a dusty esky of unknown origin.
Then there was old Bob, who peered into my bag and, without missing a beat, said, “Angle grinder discs, eh? What’d you pay for those?”
I told him.
He nodded sagely.
"Hmph," he said.
"I got a whole box for five bucks last week.”
For once, I had the better deal.
Satisfaction washed over me..
Nearly every person I met said the exact same thing.
“I really don’t need more stuff.
"I should be having my own clearing sale.”
And yet, their keen eyes surveyed the offerings like a pirate sizing up a chest of gold.
The irony was not lost on any of us.
The real adventure, of course, is trying to fit everything into the car.
A classic rural spectacle unfolded as people attempted various feats of physics and spatial reasoning.
I watched one couple carefully manoeuvre an antique sideboard into the back of their ute, an audience quickly gathered—some just observing, others offering unsolicited advice with the confidence of seasoned furniture removers.
After much grunting, shifting, and a brief argument about whether or not it should be laid flat or upright, they managed to wedge it in.
Victory was short-lived, however, when they realised the tailgate wouldn’t close.
This led to a hasty trip back to the sale to purchase more rope—because of course, the one thing they hadn’t bought yet was something to tie it down.
Another bloke was systematically repacking his station wagon like it was a game of Tetris, muttering something about “just one more box”.
Meanwhile, I was faced with the reality of my ship’s bell: namely, that it weighed about as much as a small cow and was now precariously wedged between a hay fork, a ladder and my passenger seat.
The drive home was spent reflecting on the day’s finds.
The thrill of bargains well scored, the joy of seeing familiar faces, and the sneaking suspicion that I might have just added to the "I’ll find a use for that one day collection". Because deep down, I think we all have a touch of hunter and gatherer in us—and there’s always room for just one more thing.
