I went out to smoke this morning, and was greeted with a surprise: It’s Ballentrae Community Yard Sale Day. No, thanks. Dante may have left “holding a yard sale” off his list, but it’s somewhere in my Top 40.

Twelve pirate garage sale signs have magically appeared in our front yard overnight, like a bed of rectangular neon spring flowers. We have the first corner lot inside the neighborhood entrance, so it’s A-1 prime sign posting real estate. If there is one thing Rob hates, it’s when someone posts a sign in his yard without first asking if it’s okay. It’s just basic courtesy. If a neighbor asks to post a direction sign to an event in the neighborhood, the answer will always be yes, with the promise that they also remove the sign after. Courtesy.

Politicians? Never – except for our own personal 2008 Ron Paul for President lawn and vehicle campaign extravaganza. Realtors we will allow to post, but only if they’re willing to pay us a small marketing fee in return (that was my idea). Unfortunately, one has not yet been willing. We have been known to hold realtor signs hostage in hopes of exchanging them for that marketing fee, because I can’t imagine those signs are cheap, but so far that’s just left us with a collection of metal signs and bitchy realtors. 

Our rule is that any sign placed without notification is promptly pulled and trashed. Yes, even birthday parties. We’re hardcore serious about it.

Guy a couple of years ago: “Did you pull my garage sale signs out of your yard?”
Rob: “Yes, I did.”
Guy: “Why did you do that?”
Rob: “If you had asked, I would have said yes, but you didn’t. I don’t put my trash in YOUR yard.”
Guy: “Can I at least have my signs back?”
Rob: “I mean, you can go look. They’re in the trash cans out by the garage. Help yourself, man.”

Trucks, vans, and SUVs, some with trailers, are currently parked on both sides of the road and all in our yard, while strangers dig through my neighbors’ garbage possessions. It’s like Ballentrae Halloween, except that the only costumes are Hoarder, Crafty Mom, and Trailer Park. And I don’t have to give out candy. 

A truck drove by earlier, slowly looking inside our garage. I shook my head no. They slowed further. I exaggerated the universal hand gestures for “keep going” and “no, do not come in here”, but they were apparently unfamiliar with those. So I had to tell an old man and his wife that, no, Rob’s tools were not for sale and – the second question coming 5 silent seconds after the first – that no, I would not consider it anyway. He looked really disappointed.

Fortunately, he totally scored on a non-functional riding lawn mower across the street. My neighbor, Don, had to then help the old man push and load the mower onto his trailer, and I couldn’t wait to see it unfold. Don is very pretty, like Barbie’s Ken, with product-styled thick wavy blonde hair, and a wardrobe that could be described as tangent to chic, in a Hendersonville sort of way. And, although he is a husband, and father of 3, I promise: You would never accuse him of being manly.

Don had no clue how to help or what to do, and the polite, Southern, elderly gentleman was trying really hard not to get angry at having to shout directions and point to the area requiring attention, while also holding the entire machine’s weight, solo, on an incline. (“Push it down! Just push it down! No, not THAT, the trailer. The trailer! The FRONT! Just push it DOWN!”) Don tried to laugh it off. Old guy probably got a hernia with his mower. I wanted popcorn.