One man’s junk may be another man’s treasure.
Sure, that statement may be as cliché as a 25-cent pink neon sticker on a chipped, ceramic coffee mug. Yet, something intriguing happens when people see a garage/tag/yard sale sign attached to a light pole or burrowed in a front yard.
Carloads of ravenous treasure hunters swoop next to the curb, stealthily moving from car to driveway, hunting elusive fortune.
Or, maybe these bargain shoppers simply rummage for a cute picture frame or kitschy set of wine glasses.
Perhaps these curiosity seekers search for relaxation, a getaway from the regular grind, and discover it among the rows of overloaded card tables.
These discount dickerers want a bargain. They aren’t afraid to haggle over a few cents.
On Saturday, my mom, two aunts, Lacey and I ventured to Burwell, checking out the Junk Jaunt, billed as 300 miles of Nebraska treasures.
It’s a brilliant economic development idea that pumps money into local economies, as well as the pocketbooks of individuals, charitable organizations, and entrepreneurs.
Along the way, we spied multiple collections, ran into old friends and family, and decided some junk is simply what the word implies.
We weren’t looking for any specific items; however, each of us found a certain piece(s) that resonated with us.
Call it sentimental or nostalgic thinking, but half of my purchases are throwbacks to my grandparents, reminiscent of growing up with a close-knit extended family during uncomplicated times.
My g’rents used to have a set of metallic drinking glasses in cool colors. When filled with ice cubes and beverages, sweat beads dripped from the tumblers, forming rivulets atop the table. I’m not sure why those glasses entice me, except they represent family and our farm, special moments with extraordinary people. When Aunt Deanna pointed out a set, I couldn’t resist.
At another stop, I noticed a cut-glass pedestal candy dish trimmed in red. It matches antique stemware my grandparents presented as a wedding gift. At grandma’s house, the glassware sat in the shadowbox in the kitchen. Looking at the dish, I hear her telling stories as we snap beans or shuck corn while sitting at the kitchen table.
On my grandparents’ dining room table, an oval-shaped bowl with colored inlets held seasonal items. I found the same bowl during Saturday’s journey.
To some, these items represent materialistic pieces of the past. A hodgepodge of collectibles that muddle memories.
But I remember the day we auctioned off our grandparents’ belongings, box by box, piece by piece, and watched strangers carry away snippets of our family’s collective past.
Every piece possessed a story: the shot glass collection we all contributed to, the beer and winemaking equipment grandpa cherished, the afghans grandma constructed and designed.
How would the highest bidder learn the history associated with each acquisition?
Would they appreciate the anecdotes?
How do you raffle or sell a life to others, twenty-five cents at a time?
As I traded greenbacks for my purchases on Saturday, these were the same questions I pondered.








