Best Rummage Sale Poems
This was my Home where I Grew up many Moons ago.
I Shared an Abundance of Great Memories at 133 Linden Drive in Fairmont, Minnesota.
My Father, Mother, and Brother All Shared in my Growth and Joy.
I Remember Swimming in the Lake, which was only a block away.
I Remember Running down to the Lake and Jumping off of the Dock into the Water.
What a Fun Memory Swimming in Lake Sisseton!
I Remember walking down to Mrs. Enge's House for my Piano Lesson's every week.
I Remember Wonderful Christmas's with Family and Friends.
I Remember having a Street Wide Rummage sale with all of the Neighbors Participating on Linden Drive.
I Remember Playing with the Neighbor Kids.
I Remember making Snow Forts in the Snow with my Brother Brandon.
I Remember Sledding on the Snow down Linden Drive with such utter Excitement and Fun!
I Remember having Swedish Meatballs on Christmas Eve with my Mom, Dad, and Brother.
I Remember Celebrating my High School Graduation Party at the House, what a Rewarding and Fun Day!
I Remember Many Great Memories at my former Home on Linden Drive.
Most of All, I Remember the Love and Joy we Shared as a Family through the Years.
These Memories will Last Forever and Transcend Money, Greed, Space, and Time...
In The End, All We Have Are Memories.
WRITTEN BY, CHADWICK ANDREW VINCENT
THE LOST WAGON TRAIN
Last fall, hurriedly clearing the attic,
We were packing lots of books and crocks
For the church rummage sale frantic.
My son grabbed a book from one box,
And threw it on the heap marked “low priced stocks”
Cowboy book, hardback with title unheard.
It was a small novel, really cheap you’d say,
With some handwritten word
On the home-made dust cover gray:
THE LOST WAGON TRAIN by Zane Grey.
I said no, son, gimme that please - that stays with me.
But dad, it’s only a Zane Grey book.
Son, its gran’s handwriting don’t you see?
The dust cover was made by my mother - look.
. . . . . And when she went, it’s just about all I took.
He gently blew the dust off, and gave me it clean.
I had mislaid it and never would have guessed.
Time stood still : it seemed only yesterday I had seen
Her write it - she loved Zane Grey stories about the West.
And I realized how much I loved cowboy movies best.
C’mon dad, he whispered, I ought
To get this stuff packed quick and on the road myself,
Seeing me daydreaming in deep thought.
I went and put it where it belonged itself,
On our living room ‘s central bookshelf.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Paula Swanson’s Contest “Yard Sale”
In the corner of a room is a showcase
received from a library rummage sale.
It's being utilized differently than
its original purpose for the public.
It is now very much a family focus.
On top of the case are two pairs of small
shoes originally purchased some 40 years
ago for our sons who are now 42 and 46.
Three garments hang inside this glass enclosure.
First, our daughter who is 50, has a high school
jacket with her name inscribed, and there's her
Yearbook dated 1989. There is a Boy Scouts of
America shirt belonging to our oldest son. Next,
there is a beautiful little vest of our youngest son
denoting him as a member of the church's group
known as 'King's Kids'. Finally, there's also a handprint
in a clay mold. It is the handprint image of our youngest
son with his name inscribed and the year 1987, when he
was 6 years old.
These are precious items of our kids from yesteryears.
We have embraced all of these family treasures for more
than 35 years, and display them proudly with much
gratitude toward God.
She handed me a small box old, yet still neat; what a find
The seventies faces staring back reminded me of better times
Time to play, summers visiting grandparents and hope
The future will be amazing; just stay away from dope
Walking around in the woods up and down the hills
Time has a way of being ok then not; conflicting wills
Conflicting emotions cross my face.... should I let the box go
Or see if another day will be remembered inside that paper doll box so
I hide the box on my shelf now I look at the date and 1974 I see
I can't let go of that little girl; you see it would be letting go of me
Emotions run wild pensiveness, regret and saving grace
Happiness to see a friendly face and time travel to another place
Rummage sale keeper you are my friend
Tomorrow's memories you can lend
Hopped a rattler out of Akron.
Rode the high end all the way.
On the Erie-Lackawanna,
Made North Jersey by next day.
Between a bottle and a biscuit,
And that’s all I’m gonna say.
‘Twas a rude accommodation.
No Angelina on my arm.
Stumbled in Towaco Station,
A-number-1, no false alarm.
I raided Harrigan’s at midnight.
Came to find my lucky charm.
Jacked a barstool with a seatbelt.
Took that baby for a spin.
Tanked a beaker full of vino,
Ran some red light sure as sin.
I traced the towpath to a piss pot;
Couldn’t keep from falling in.
Old Black Joe and Camptown Races
Waged a juke box culture war.
Jumped a willing breakneck filly,
Spilled her potluck on the floor.
I played her pussy foot to cat’s paw,
Then I danced right out the door.
Fleeced a rummage sale in Boonton;
Empty pockets, long-term loan.
Found a brown old five cent nickel,
And a plastic pocket comb.
Ain’t no sweet back, blue-eyed beefer.
New Hobohemia’s my home.
Cigarette smoke and cheap perfume
linger in a dance of remembrance
An unmarried aunt who clerked in a store
her rummage sale pearls yellow with age
wrapped around my memories and my fascinations
I was eleven years old when she died
and I heard my parents say: “Floss was never really happy”
But to me, she always smiled and took a
nickel from her shiny black plastic purse when it
was time for us to leave…
putting the coin in my hand and a big red lipstick
kiss on my cheek
Looking back, I think it was my parents who were
unhappy with who she was
There were whispers of past husbands and
maybe a child—but no one ever talked about it out loud
In a black and white 1950’s world Aunt Florence
was bigger than their disappointments
Living in the shadows of the post war mid-century
a ‘loser’ could slip into one and hang on
She has outlived almost everything
I was encouraged to forget
and her life has become rich in my memory
—growing richer with time
(Lansdowne Pennsylvania: 1959)