We Americans recently polished up another star in our national crown. Last month the United States hosted the world’s longest yard sale.
That’s longest in terms of distance, not time. Five states, 654 miles. Every year in the furnace of August, Highway 127 from Gadsden, Ala., to West Unity, Ohio, becomes the place to be for yard-sale aficionados. Talk about bragging rights!
So far, no one has claimed that the traffic jam of eager shoppers is visible from space, so there are superlatives yet to achieve.
Our neighbor Kansas is on the hunt for similar glory. Later this month it will hold the world’s longest yard sale in one state. Kansas is 400 miles across, and it intends to use every mile of U.S. Highway 36 to showcase the best of its basement, attic and garage detritus.
Highway 36 runs pretty much arrow straight along the northern border of Kansas. In my fevered dreams, I see envious Nebraskans lined up six deep at the lower edge of their garage-sale-bereft state as they gaze south at the endless vista of dollar-laden visitors traversing Kansas in search of treasure.
However, we Missourians have no reason to be ashamed. We have, right here in our own geographic patch, the Neosho citywide sale, which may be — to be suitably humble — our state’s largest garage sale held in a single town.
People speak with obvious pride of the number of hours they were trapped in gridlock trying to get onto the Boulevard. It was worth it, they chortle, recalling the blissful moment they found that microwave for Granny’s room in the retirement home and that like-new set of 1992 encyclopedias. The Britannica, no less!
In its search for superlatives, Neosho may be wiser than either Kansas or those folks frying along Highway 127. Neosho goes for gold in April, which is moderately more temperate than September in Kansas or August anywhere.
Earlier this year, our own little neighborhood chose to indulge in this trend toward über-garage-sale-itis.
Our neighborhood event, however, was not provoked by lust for either fame or fortune. It was motivated primarily by the realization on the part of several neighbors that all their children had finally left home. For good. And that they had neglected to take all their belongings with them.
In a moment of inattention spurred by a misplaced sense of communal esprit de corps, my husband and I decided to participate in this modest event. Then, in a spasm of pure lunacy, we also agreed to sell items belonging to a couple of neighbors who carefully planned to be out of town on the day of the sale, regardless of when it was scheduled.
We thought: Why not? We have only half a dozen things of our own to sell — an ancient refrigerator, a weed whacker, a collection of jigsaw puzzles (only used once). It couldn’t possibly be difficult to oversee another table or three.
Therefore, it was with light hearts and the hope of a pleasant couple of hours of neighborly bonding that we raised our garage door at 7:30 a.m. to find a solid wall of slavering humanity occupying our driveway.
We really did try to keep track of my clever scheme of different colored tags for our absent co-sellers. We really did.
At some point about 200 hours later, a neighbor wandered down the hill, cold alcoholic beverage in hand, to investigate why traffic hadn’t been able to move in 20 minutes. She had sold all her stuff and was delighted to see that the neighborhood had attracted such a nice turnout for our little event.
“We should do this again next year,” she said, beaming happily at all the vehicles logjammed on our street like a mass of impacted teeth.
Sure thing. I’m planning a trek into Tibet next year. There’s no word for yard sale in the Tibetan language.
Carolyn Trout, retired Joplin Public Library librarian, lives in Joplin.
