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Today and tomorrow I am running a garage sale at the house I grew up in. This is the last of my childhood furniture and all the other random crap that I remember, at least that part of it that my Dad didn't take to his new house. I already took the things I wanted, including a lamp for my daughter's room (which we called my "sick lamp" because it only ever got turned on in the middle of the night when I was ill,) and the funny looking blue stained glass light fixture (that I certainly won't be hanging in my house, but I spent thousands of hours staring aimlessly at as a child so I had to have it anyway,) and some small Christmas decorations that, again, are not actually that nice but they featured heavily in my youth. But it's still weird to be watching people walk away with these memories of mine, and to think that after this weekend I will never set foot in this ugly, disintegrating house again, with its wood paneling falling off the walls and nasty brown shag carpet that has never been cleaned in 30 years.
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