Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Brandon is world famous in Moscow for being the heart and soul behind The Fence, that bastion of manly craftsmanship. Ladies in the neighborhood love to fawn all over Brandon and his rippling forearms of might and courage.

But that Fence was nothing compared to the glory that went down on our driveway on Saturday.

Our yard sale filled up the entirety of the living room the night before.  We assigned prices on brightly colored sticky dots until the wee hours, and then Brandon The Famous arose at 4:30 to begin hauling pieces of our Moscow lives to the curb to be rifled through and taken home starting at 8:00 on the dot.

At 7:00 I pointed and stretched my toes and then headed to the kitchen in my undies for a bowl of cereal. That is when the entire bloody town of Moscow saw me in my undies, because the whole bloody town was in my driveway.

Our couch? Sold. Our table? Sold. Four years worth of my clothing? Sold. In, like, five minutes. My bronze planter stand that is so ugly it is cool? Not sold, and just in the nick of time!

Things began to die down around noon, and then randomly at 2:00 I went outside to find a man in his seventies serenading Brandon on my guitar with old songs he used to perform "while touring Europe in my twenties."

Our house was the center of the universe that day. We sold everything.

Now that the Moving Sale of the Century has ended, Brandon's status in the neighborhood has skyrocketed. "That sure was some yard sale!" is what the neighbors say in reverent tones.

And then I say, "Who was that?"

And then Brandon says,

"Oh, so-and-so from the down the street. Did you know his wife is French?"

And I say,

"Oh."

And then I  go back to thinking about whether I want an orange popsicle or a cherry popsicle when our walk is over, 'cause that's about all I'm good for these days.