Roadside Sale
Having amply supplied the Society treasury, my sisters and I planned a second bake sale, this time in the interest of personal financial betterment. I myself had long been set on purchasing a certain item from Simply Charlotte Mason.
All the day before we filled the kitchen with smells of banana, pumpkin, maple, and spice. The last snicker-doodles were in the oven after dark; between switching pans in the oven, I joined the others in the parlor where the old movie projector hummed busily. I didn’t get to bed until after eleven, long after the movie credits—and we had to get up at six the next morning!
When I stumbled out of bed, groping for the alarm clock, it was still dark. We had a hurried breakfast before going out to set up the table and baked goods. The horizon was just tinged with apricot, but already the air was hot and heavy.
Having arranged the cookies and breads to their best advantage, Littlest Sister and I manned the cash box (a vintage tin chocolate box), and Next Sister went to the side of the road with the sign declaring “Sale.”
We love Next Sister to death, but if she has a fault it is over-sensitivity. When any motorist passed by without bestowing so much as a glance, Next Sister cried indignantly, “How rude!”
After a few similar declarations, I joked, “You don’t have to take it so personally. They’re probably avoiding your entreating gaze so they won’t feel obligated to purchase anything.”
“Well, they should feel obligated,” she returned petulantly, only half in fun. She did make a comical figure, smiling appealingly at approaching motorists and then glaring at their fast-fleeing tail lights (though she insisted this was only to see if more cars were coming from the opposite direction).
By the time the sun turned its full face on the street, Next Sister had concluded that most women were heartless and that men were nicer the older they were. Men at least smiled and waved. She liked even less those who slowed down or pulled up only to drive away without explanation.
“Don’t they know how demoralizing it is?—that they build up hopes only to dash them?”
When there was a lull in traffic, Next Sister meandered back to the table for conversation. She began:
“I read a horrible article in a magazine the other day. It was telling the readers not to feel guilty about passing up yard sales.” Her voice registered shock in every syllable. “They even told them not to be manipulated by children sign-holders. I guess they assume that grown-ups are sending the children out, but what about children who do sales themselves? Like us?“ There was some thought, and then: “We should sue them for damaging our business, our means of livelihood.” (Because, after all, purchasing new books and seminars is part of our livelihood.)
In a more charitable mood she observed, “At least the article said they should smile and wave.”
There was a droning from the east. Next Sister made it to the curb just in time to flash the sign at a passer-by, whose eyes nevertheless remained fixed on the road.
“How rude!”
“Must have been someone who read that horrible article,” I called out.
“No, because then they would have smiled and waved. Humph.”
She came over again, and fingered the little paper sign for her matchboxes: “Fundraiser. 50¢ each.”
“I was just thinking,” she said, “that I don’t really have a fundraiser in mind for this. It’s kind of misleading, don’t you think?”
“Feed the Little children,” I suggested.
Littlest Sister fell off her chair laughing.
“Ha. Ha. What should I have a fundraiser for anyway? I mean, I can’t have one just to support me. That would look silly.”
“Well,” I said, pointing to a little sign I had taped on the table. “I thought the money from the matchboxes was supposed to go to the Society.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Alright. I guess two percent of the proceeds from the matchboxes can go to the Society.” She returned to her post, calling out suggestions for her personal fundraiser. We laughed at all of them, and imagined informing customers: “You’ll be glad to know, sir, that your money will be going towards the purchase of a new ———.” (You guess.)
The front door banged and Littlest Brother came out, droopy-eyed and cuddlesome. “Did you sell anything?” he wanted to know. It was eight o’clock, and we hadn’t made a dime.
“I thought for sure we’d get some breakfast people before eight.” I shrugged my shoulders and buried my nose in Littlest Brother’s hair. It smelled like shampoo for once.
“Stop Lilly! Stop Lilly!” Third Brother shrieked. A black and white bundle of fur, like an animate toupee, bounded ahead of him, and then streaked through the front gates toward the busy road.
“LILLY!” I thundered over the others’ ineffectual shouting. Lilly cowered just under the table, and a puddle expanded around her legs.
“Great.” Littlest Sister laughed ruefully. “This will be a wonderful incentive to prospective customers.”
Lily was taken away in disgrace, and Littlest Sister rinsed the pavement.
“Let’s hope that dries soon. We don’t want our customers to get wet feet.” [Feminine squeals and shudders.]
Littlest Sister and I tucked our own feet on the chair rungs, and resumed our watch. It was interesting to observe the various passers-by and remark on their personalities.
One passing motorist fixed us with a particularly long and unsmiling gaze. Littlest Sister remarked simply, “Income tax man.” I cracked up (metaphorically speaking), and Next Sister left her post to see what it was all about. It’s a family joke that Next Sister can’t stand to be left out of a good laugh.
Littlest Brother wanted a song, so for the remainder of our time outside (six hours), he peppered me with requests. “Mr. Frog Went a Courtin’.” “Anthony Rowley.” “The shark song.” “Paper of Pins.” “The one with the boy who goes to war.” “Paper of Pins.” “Paper of Pins. Please!” “Oh, No John!” “Paper of Pins.” “Oh, No John! Why not?” “Paper of Pins.” We sang “Dixie” and “Dance to Your Daddy” and “Camptown Races” and “Charming Billy” and “Bonnie Blue Flag” and “The Kerry Dance.”
It was finally my turn to hold the sign at the roadside. I had delayed as long as possible, but Next Sister, discouraged and already red from the sun, was ready to quit for a time.
“Your turn, Samy; and I’ll be real mad if a customer comes right after I’ve left. I’ll just know it’s me.”
Seeing no recourse, I trudged to the roadside with the sign. “I really don’t want to do this,” I repeated pathetically, but Next Sister was already perched on the folding chair, waving enthusiastically at passers-by.
Alright. I could do this. I held up the sign in front of my face.
“Point your finger in our direction!” Next Sister yodeled. “They’ll think you’re advertising for the garage sale down the road!”
I sighed, but my right arm swung out jerkily, and I extended a rigid index finger in their general direction.
Littlest Sister guffawed heartily—or heartlessly, depending on how you look at it. “Why don’t you smile or something? You look so stiff and prim! Forbidding!”
I was vindicated when a minivan pulled into the driveway on my watch. We had our first customer! Two blonde, thin ladies stepped out; they might be good for one purchase, but that was all. Remarking on the delicious smell, they bought half a loaf of pumpkin bread. Littlest Sister was five dollars richer.
When Next Sister returned from a walk with the dog, and heard about our first sale she moaned, “See? It is something to do with me!” Just as we knew she would.
A motorist whirled by without a glance. I found myself crying out, “How rude!” This visceral reaction caught me by surprise, and it took me a few times to reason myself out of it. It seems that even speedy motorized vehicles have not erased the human expectation of being noticed and acknowledged. Next Sister chuckled appreciatively.
We had ten or so customers after the first, and a few purchased two, three, or even four items. Some of them came during Next Sister’s watches, so she was reassured. Her banana-walnut bread (sweetened with honey, sir) proved popular, so she was also encouraged by the tally-marks she was accumulating. My snicker-doodles were slow but steady sellers, and I sold one of the carrot cakes. Littlest Sister’s pumpkin bread (gold and sweet!) was a favorite choice despite being the most expensive item.
By the time we trudged inside at two o’clock, sweaty, tired, with headaches from the sunlight, we had together made nearly fifty dollars.
Littlest Sister bemoaned it “the worst bake sale I’ve ever had,” but she was the richest of us three.
I had more than enough money—added to previous savings—to purchase the long-coveted item, and hopefully enough for shipping. (Alas, it was not to be, but my birthday money came to the rescue some days later.)
Next Sister had plenty of pin money, and a beautiful silver casserole server—purchased with three dollars and banana bread from the garage sale down the street. She polished it that evening, and we girls planned a whole ‘dinner with dancing’ around it.
The three youngest boys, who had each taken turns holding the sign, were wealthy with extra snicker-doodles.
It was a good day after all, and a good week of eating carrot cake—for breakfast as well as dessert.
I’ll leave you now with this injunctive from Next Sister. Please smile and wave when you pass a roadside sale.
COMMENT ON THIS POST BY SENDING AN EMAIL TO THE HANDMAIDEN.
ELISSA said...
Sounds like y’all had quite the day!
I’ve been planning a bake sale for a couple of months now, to help out with my mom’s hospital bills. Unfortunately, I found out a few days ago that, in this frustrating state, it’s illegal for me to have a bake sale without being associated with a religious or charitable organization. Isn’t that horrible, that there are laws regarding something as simple as a bake sale?! *sigh*
Well, anyway, thanks for sharing your entertaining tale!! —Elissa
Saturday, September 4, 2010 02:58 PM
HANDMAIDEN said...
I’m glad you enjoyed the story. I had almost as much fun writing it as I did living it.
Oh, yes, that is frustrating! In our state we have a limit to the number of sales we can host without a purchased permit, but this is understandable, since they don’t want traffic impeded every weekend.
Littlest Sister suggests you organize your own charitable group, something along the line’s of Next Sister’s fundraiser. ;-) But I suppose you would have to register it. Bother.
Monday, September 6, 2010 09:07 AM
Friday, September 3, 2010