Shiny

I couldn’t get out fast enough. The kitchen sink was full, the laundry piled high and the recycling bin overflowed. It was a flight or fight moment, and I chose flight. I had nowhere to go really so I started driving towards the beach. The perky, pony tailed, Lululemon stroller-pushing runner also annoyed the shit out of me. I watched her effortlessly run up the hill that I could barely walk up and of course, she turned onto the street that I had sinfully coveted. 

A small sign caught my eye. “Estate Sale Today” it read with an arrow pointing right. Since I had no destination, I turned. There were cars parked all over the street. A steady stream of people were walking in and out of what looked like the worst house on the block. It was probably still worth millions. The house looked like it had not been updated in at least four decades. I imagined it in its prime. Shaggy carpet that caressed bare toes. Small disconnected rooms including a kitchen that was completely hidden from view. Soon this house would boast a newly renovated open concept kitchen. If walls could talk. This had been someone’s dream home. I touched the dishes and knick Knacks that were strewn onto the tables. How many meals had been served on those dishes? What plans had been made? What stories were shared? “Everything on this table is a dollar.” I looked up to see a tall slender woman wearing a name tag that read: Anna, Coastal Realty. “Is the house going on the market?, I asked her. “Yes, she replied. Once the seller has settled the estate.” “The owner was a widow that left the house to her nephew who is not interested in keeping it. He lives on the East coast. Here is my card, if you are interested.” I took her business card and slid it into the pocket of my shorts. 

At the next table were no less than 100 bird figurines. There were glass birds, ceramic birds and metal birds. One of the birds caught my eye. It was a sandpiper carved out of wood. It was different from the other birds in her collection. I picked it up and turned it over, looking for an artist's signature, like they do on that TV show. The only thing on it was a roughly carved W. I laughed at myself for thinking I could somehow distinguish art from junk. 

The next table was covered with books. The theme of birds continued. Books on bird identification, birds of the Sierras, coastal birds, and one copy of “A Field Guide To Identification Birds Of North America” published in 1966. I decided to buy it and take it to the beach with me. I figured the birds in 1966 were the same birds we have now. 

As I left behind the people scouring through this woman’s home, I imagined my own life being picked through by strangers. The dishes my mother gave me when I got married.The chipped mug that I kept because my son had given it to me when he was four. The torn hat my mom had liked to wear when she was gardening. I looked in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of myself. My eyes were puffy and the wrinkles on my forehead made me look perpetually worried. Like the house, I had a very lived in look.

At the beach, I plopped onto my towel and took in the scene. There were a few surfers but mostly the beach was full of summer tourists. Young dads towing an array of beach toys hoping at least one would keep the kids busy long enough for him to sit in a chair and eat his sandwich in peace. Women of all shapes and sizes, tugging and adjusting their bathing suits to either hide or reveal certain body parts. On my right, a young couple stretched out on their towels soaking up the sun while on my left, a woman was completely covered up, under an umbrella exposing only her toes. 

I put on my wide brimmed hat and took out the bird book to see if I could identify the shore birds. I tried to memorize them so that I could impress my family next time. After successfully identifying three birds, I put the book down to look for dolphins, which I did every time I went to the beach. I looked out towards the horizon. My mind drifted to the house, no home, I had just been in. It had felt like such an intrusion. People judging her possessions, giggling at her birds. Would people laugh at my life? I looked around at all of the shiny new people that would one day feel unrecognizable. Suddenly, I wanted to go home. 

When I went to pick up the book, something slid out from between the pages. It looked like a book mark so I carefully opened it to the page. It was a black and white photo of a young man, maybe in his early twenties? He was sitting at a picnic table and he had something in his hands. I turned it over. “Last camping trip with Billy.” I put it back in the book wondering if I should return the photo to the family. So I drove back to the house. I took the photo in and looked around for Anna. As I passed the bird table I again noticed the wooden bird and it hit me. I looked at the photo. The wooden bird on the table was what Billy, William, was carving in the photo. I looked around for Anna. She was talking to a man in a suit. No local wears a suit in the summer. Anna was making large motions with her arms as if saying, “Imagine this room with…”. I took the bird to the checkout table, paid my one dollar and went home. 

The photo and little bird are now on my bedside table as a reminder. A well lived life is measured by the wear of the carpet, the chips in the plates, and the lines across our foreheads. If it is still shiny, it was never important.