One Person's Trash

"Girl, if you don't get down here right this second, I'm gonna come up there with a switch and light up your backside!" Jean hollered up the steps to her oldest granddaughter.

Renee rolled her eyes upward and groaned loudly. "Grandma, I'm hurrying, okay?" she yelled back in exasperation. "What is the big deal?"

"The big deal," Jean almost spat out, "is that if we get started too late, all the good stuff will be picked over by the time we get there! Now c'mon!"

Grandma was a die hard yard sale junkie. She had a bumper sticker that said, "I BRAKE FOR YARD SALES." And, according to my mom, she had almost caused multiple accidents when she was dragged to yard sales as a kid doing exactly that. She needed to have a wing man, and since mom had long stopped going with her, and Grandpa sure wasn't going to do it, I was next in line for the draft. Mom was married and had her own life, and Grandpa had his garden to tend to, and his stamp and coin collections for hobbies now that he was retired.

I couldn't begrudge her this one request, even though I could think of so many better ways to spend my Saturday. My ways to spend time, though, were the main reasons I had to come live with Grandma and Grandpa in the first place. At 25, I had gotten myself into so many messes behind my drinking that no one else would help me out anymore. So, here I was, trying to put the shattered pieces of my life back together. And I was doing well, or so it seemed on the surface. I had just gotten my 90-day sobriety chip at my AA home group meeting, I had a sponsor, and I was working through the 12 steps that everyone kept telling me was my lifeline to staying sober. For now, though, it was robotic for me, because I didn't feel the gratitude that others seemed to have, and I just didn't see the blessings or the miracles that I would hear so many others speak about when they shared at the meetings. And now, I thought to myself, I am adding yard sales, of all things, to my boring, sober existence.

So me and Grandma finally headed down the road, and she looked over at me. "Honey, do you know why I love this so much?" she asked me in a sober tone. "Grandma, I have no clue." I replied, with equal seriousness. "Because one person's trash is another person's treasure." she explained. "People stop seeing the beauty in things because it has become tarnished, broken, or just doesn't look so pretty anymore. So they take it for granted that there is a better, more expensive, newer version of it somewhere else, and they deem it as garbage. I like to look behind the surface and envision the vintage beauty that it once was, and then imagine what it will look like once I've restored it."

With that, she slammed on the brakes and jerked the car to the side of the road, like she had been possessed to come to this specific yard sale. "My God, Grandma, are you trying to kill us both?" I managed to get out after my heart came back up out of my stomach. She just shrugged and got out, motioning me to come with her.

I began to look over the tables disinterestedly as Grandma oohed and aahed over a teapot, a stained glass ornament, or some other knick knack that caught her attention. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw this homemade patchwork purse, and it was like I absolutely had to have that purse. It made no logical sense to me. I had a dozen purses that I barely used, so why on Earth did I need this one? "How much for this purse?" I asked the lady behind the table. "Oh, you can have that for $.75," she replied with a smile.

As I sat in the car holding the purse in my hands, feeling each unique patch, I remembered a time when I had a favorite shirt. And even after years of wear, with holes and tears in it, I refused to part with it. My sister thought it was hideous and wouldn't even go outside with me if I wore it. It was about 8 different colors and had all sizes of colored squares, circles, and triangles on it. I realized suddenly that I loved it because it represented me, and this purse did the same. Each patch represented a path or a journey of mine, and the worn edges and smudges just made me love it more because of the obstacles I had overcome, my current goal to be independent and self-sufficient in my own place with my own car, and the new strength I was gaining in my newfound sobriety. And, in that single moment, I felt a rush of gratitude wash over me. For my sponsor, for my support network in AA, and for my grandparents, who gave me a chance because maybe they believed in me when I didn't believe in myself.

On the way home, I was lost in all of my thoughts, and Grandma must have sensed something because she left me to them. When we got home, I went up to my room and sat on the bed. I accidentally knocked the purse on the floor, and when I reached to pick it up, I noticed a little black book had fallen out of it. Curious, I opened it, and encased on the inside of it was a 1886 Indian Head penny. I didn't know anything about coins, so I went to see if Grandpa had ever seen one.

When I showed it to him, he just looked at me. "Where did you get this?" he wanted to know. "It was in a purse I bought at the yard sale with Grandma," I answered, a little on the defensive side. With my track record, though, I realized why he might have doubts about whether I had stolen it.

I sat with him while he researched the coin for me and he finally leaned way back in his chair and just stared at me. "What is it, Grandpa? What's wrong?" I asked him. "Child, this coin is worth $23,000!" Grandpa marveled. "Oh-oh-oh my gosh," I stuttered. And then I burst into tears. I had been blessed with so much and had taken it all for granted until today. The money would definitely help me with my next steps, but my growth and what I had learned that day were priceless.