There Will Be More Clowns

Scouring a thrift store's grubby aisles for evidence of my parent’s life together

Earlier this year I donated so often to the Goodwill of the Finger Lakes that the dock workers would greet me with, “More?” Then, after we had unloaded my truck bed, I’d holler, “See y’all tomorrow,” which cracked them up because they thought I was kidding. But I wasn’t. I would definitely be back the next day, and perhaps again that same afternoon with a second load.

My guess is I made a solid 25 trips to the donation bay. I’d ease my truck into the covered area and glide over the tube that rings a bell inside, then I’d hop out to help the red-aproned workers stack my parent’s array of things onto their wheeled pushcarts.

The first few loads were items I excluded from the coming estate sales. Bins of holiday decorations, academic textbooks, an assortment of chipped and cracked household randoms dredged up from the garage and basement. Items I predicted would’t sell.

The next series of loads were the leftovers from the first estate sale, which included two incomplete sets of antique china, baskets of smalls my mom got from a dollhouse enthusiast, handmade wooden cars, construction helmets, an old pair of ice skates, multiple floor fans, a collection of scissors, quilted wall hangings, a large bin of assorted flatware, two coffee makers, a bundle of wooden spoons, three George Foreman grills, a box of royal family paraphernalia, a thimble collection, a spoon collection, hundreds of doilies, heirloom silver and cheap crystal pieces, a box of empty baby Gerber jars, push back pins, vintage patches, strings of fake pearls, a hacky sack, three Samsonite briefcases, a s’mores kit, a steel goat, recipe boxes, walking sticks, drawer trays filled with office supplies, wooden frames, metal frames, glass frames, statues of the Virgin Mary, National Geographic VHS tapes, some Disney ephemera, a small red cooler, trophies, an angel collection, a Singer sewing machine from the 1930s, and a super heavy external hard drive, to name a few.

Clearing all that out made room for the second estate sale. And though it also was wildly successful, I had a lot left over after. My subsequent hauls to the Goodwill contained yard chairs, a Weber barbecue, the remaining silver and crystal, a life-sized plush duck, a teacup rack, nuts and bolts cabinets, wind chimes, a wooden box full of rosaries and prayer cards, tape guns, cookbooks, three white boards of various sizes, a TV, board games with missing pieces, two external frame backpacks, a bucket of XL clothes, a few birdseed suets, and a bunch of obscure tools and equipment from my dad’s workshop about which I knew nothing (nor did the shoppers, evidently).

With two weekends of massive sales behind me, I used Facebook Marketplace and Craigslist to unload the remaining larger items including two bookshelves, a stack of plastic storage containers, a couple desks, floor lamps, a massive rolling cabinet my dad made for the garage, more holiday decor I found in an attic crawl space, and more. But after a couple weeks of dealing with buyers who were more interested in inquiring if the thing was available than actually buying it, I cancelled all the listings and filled my truck for more hauls to the Goodwill.

The remaining few trips were smaller and less frequent. Some boxes of tchotchkes, yard tools I wouldn’t use again, vehicle accessories, a bunch of food containers, and a grip of coffee table books that someone had agreed to pick up for ten bucks but never showed.

I delivered this stuff to the Goodwill until all that remained in the house was a bed, a couple kitchen items, two bathroom towels, some bins of family memorabilia that needed to be sorted through, a thriving croton plant, and my personal items.

With each delivery, the house grew echoes. With each delivery, the wall’s creaking bones amplified. With each delivery, ghosts made themselves known. The house became itself again.   

 In all of those visits to the Goodwill store, I never once went inside. I imagined row after row of my folk’s stuff marked with price-indicating color codes, and wondered how it would be to find my great great grandmother’s silver vase laying on its belly amongst a torrent of distressed junk. Entering the space intrigued me, but I couldn’t bring myself to lay eyes on my family’s items being sold to eBay hawkers for a song.

This past week I visited my mom in Rochester for a quick check in. She wanted to stop by her old neighborhood to see friends, so I dropped her off with plans to scoop her up in a few hours. While driving around to kill time, I was overcome by a rush of nostalgia I blame on having spent a pivotal few intense months in the area.

I mindlessly drove the route to the Goodwill as I recalled how much I had done in such a short amount of time: I moved my mom into a senior community, sorted all of her and my late father’s household goods, hosted two big sales, prepped the house to be listed, ran countless trips to the post office to send my siblings items they wanted, and God knows so much more. It was a lot. One morning in the thick of it all I woke up with an intense case of vertigo. Another time I spent the day lightheaded with sporadic heart palpitations. For a few inexplicable days there sat an extra weight on my back and legs—like I was lugging bags of sand—and every move I made was an all out effort that had me wondering if my own days were numbered.     

Hereafter I’ll forever lump these months of managing the details of my father’s death alongside the most fulfilling hardships I’ve ever experienced. Like when I was a day laborer at Matanzas Creek winery’s grape harvest where I worked so hard my hands were literally numb for six months. Or when I was tasked with the responsibility of feeding more than 500 rescued farm animals, three times per day, in the driving and snow at Farm Sanctuary in Watkins Glen, NY. Or as a teacher an inner city middle school special ed class in Long Beach, CA where if a student didn’t show up I would wonder if they were in jail, or a new foster home, or the casualty of a shooting. Like when I ran a 100 miler. Or walked across America. All the things I’ve done that will always conjure memories both terrible and fulfilling.

I entered the Goodwill’s main lot, found a parking spot, and killed the engine. I walked towards the main entrance, stopping along the way as a warm spring breeze whisked away wrappers from the adjacent Dairy Queen. The automatic doors took an extra second to register my approach, then they jerked open, slowly screeching over crusty rails. Inside, I breathed in the familiar musty smell of a large thrift store. A soothing funk I’d forgotten how much I enjoy.

I went first to the men’s clothing section and found nothing I recognized. Then I headed to the jumble of framed wall hangings where nothing there looked familiar either. A couple vintage clown paintings caught my eye and I considered scooping them up—but the prospect of carrying them home on the airplane was enough to make me put them back.

The remaining aisles were haystacks. Messy piles of household goods, shoved and piled to fill every available inch of the wide shelves. I weaved up and down the walkways, dodging rickety people pushing rickety carts as they examined rickety items. I found nothing I knew from my folks’ house. Of course, I thought. It’s been months, after all.

The last aisle was jam packed with stuff. A wall of wine glasses on one side and a mass of other breakables on the other. I had this aisle to myself. About half way down, a crystal bowl caught my eye. I scrutinized it for a second, then disregarded it. I looped back to the store’s start and retraced my steps for a second look at everything.

When I returned to the bowl a second time, I picked it up. It was chunky and heavier than it looked. Its jagged corners pressed sharp indentations into my palm. I knew this item. It had sat on the folding table in the middle of my parent’s living room during the first estate sale, and before that it lay buried for decades in their oversized kitchen hutch. There were no obvious brand markings, but a reverse Google search assured me it wasn’t valuable.

My mom had gotten it from her grandma Anne as part of a much larger set. She’d taken a couple pieces to her community apartment, one of which now holds MnMs and hard peppermint candies. This bowl, however, wasn’t practical in her new digs. Now, some three months after I donated it, it’s priced for $3.31 and awaits a new home.

I anticipated a sentimental jolt as the bowl sat in my hand. Something that might trigger another untimely emotional release. But all I felt was a piqued sense of curiosity that had me wondering about the find’s symbolic meaning. Like, of the thousands of items I donated, why is this the last piece standing? Why am I finding it today? Has it been waiting for me to return?

My inquiry waned and I set the crystal bowl back onto the cluttered shelf. I stepped back and considered the clown paintings again. I could get at least ten times their marked price from a collector on eBay. But I refrained. This wasn’t the right time to look for items to flip. There will be more clowns, I thought.

I didn’t tell my mom about the bowl. And since finding it I’ve convinced myself that it wasn’t actually a piece from my mom’s collection. I probably found it because I wanted to find something.

Saying goodbye to things is tough. It certainly was for my sentimental mom who associates each of her worldly possessions with specific, joy-inspiring memories. This spoon reminds me of that time our family went to such-and-such restaurant and so-and-so told us they were pregnant so we celebrated with a big ice cream sundae we ate together with this very spoon. My parent’s house was filled of stuff like that.

Getting rid of my their stuff was hard for me, too. With each run to the Goodwill I gave away more and more of their life. And in doing so I eliminated the material prompts for a lifetime of echoing stories. Which I suppose is OK. Because forgetting, to some degree, is an integral part of moving on and making space for new things.

I nearly bought back that crystal bowl. Unlike the clowns, it would easily fit in my carry-on. But doing so felt like taking a step back. As if reuniting with this physical object would only add tangible burden to a memory I had already grieved, processed, and healthily stored away.

So, for the second time, I left that crystal bowl behind. I trust I’ll remember the things I need to remember.