A tent calls to us from the road where we followed signs as bad as an Irishman’s directions “just a little farther”. We trudge through a mowed hayfield alongside a storybook red barn, cash in hand, anticipation in our hearts. Barn Sales. There is a community connection as well as an undercurrent of competition that bind these folks together. Standing in a huddled mass at the rope divider blocking our best views, we pass the time with stories while waiting in line, stories that are fantastic and yet they keep us hoping for the next great find. The hunt for the goods is part of the thrill, as is being a part of the theater of it all.
It is time and the rope drops and all pretense and camaraderie disappear as we each bound for the barn and piles that await. Every man for himself. The barn shelves and folding tables are filled with all that is charming and curious. Rustic, cobwebby farm implements and broken china. Crates and orchard boxes. Old tin cans filled with nails and doorknobs. Oil cans and tin drawers. High back spindle chairs and an old bench make it’s way into my pile where I exhort my husband to stand guard. I make my way over to the tables at the side of the barn where I put my hand gently on an old boudoir doll and miniature dollhouse furniture in an old box. Into my tote they go. Spying an old tin S&H sign I make for it. Too heavy to handle with one hand I motion for my husband who catches my anxiety and with one eagle eye still on our pile he comes over and grabs the sign. Tag teaming is nice in the competiveness of a Grass Valley barn sale. Topping our finds off with a few lug boxes and an old rusty hook we go to the owner to start the dance. My husband growing up as a Missionary kid in Mexico was weaned on market bartering so he takes the lead offering a bundle price so low that he is close to insulting the owner but he says it with a smile and finally we arrive at a agreement and we are off to the next sale. Around noon we are done and get brunch at our favorite breakfast spot after washing our hands thoroughly from the dirt and grime.
It is time and the rope drops and all pretense and camaraderie disappear as we each bound for the barn and piles that await. Every man for himself. The barn shelves and folding tables are filled with all that is charming and curious. Rustic, cobwebby farm implements and broken china. Crates and orchard boxes. Old tin cans filled with nails and doorknobs. Oil cans and tin drawers. High back spindle chairs and an old bench make it’s way into my pile where I exhort my husband to stand guard. I make my way over to the tables at the side of the barn where I put my hand gently on an old boudoir doll and miniature dollhouse furniture in an old box. Into my tote they go. Spying an old tin S&H sign I make for it. Too heavy to handle with one hand I motion for my husband who catches my anxiety and with one eagle eye still on our pile he comes over and grabs the sign. Tag teaming is nice in the competiveness of a Grass Valley barn sale. Topping our finds off with a few lug boxes and an old rusty hook we go to the owner to start the dance. My husband growing up as a Missionary kid in Mexico was weaned on market bartering so he takes the lead offering a bundle price so low that he is close to insulting the owner but he says it with a smile and finally we arrive at a agreement and we are off to the next sale. Around noon we are done and get brunch at our favorite breakfast spot after washing our hands thoroughly from the dirt and grime.
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