What We Leave Behind

I have a friend who loves to go to estate sales, those upscale versions of garage sales. Maybe sometimes she has something in mind that she is looking for, but most times I think she enjoys browsing, never knowing what bargains she might stumble upon. A few months ago, she dropped off the hard cover version of "The Last Western," by the late Thomas Klise, a Peorian, whose family we grew up with. 

A couple months ago, she texted me from a sale she was at with her daughter, wanting to know if John wore a 44 jacket. She said they had a Brooks Brothers tux for sale. I perked up at this as Luke was scheduled to go to prom. 44 was too small for John; I didn't know if it might fit Luke. Christy told me the sale continued the next three evenings. The home was located on Skyline Drive, a steep road that winds its way up the bluff in north Peoria, over looking the Illinois River. The home was owned by Jim Vergon, a former head of CILCO, the former utility company in central Illinois. I looked up the obituary.

This turned out to be a mistake, as least as far as going to the estate sale was concerned. 

Jim Vergon led quite the life and it was well told in the obituary. He was a Bradley grad and a Sigma Chi, a mechanical engineer who worked his way up the ladder at CILCO to become its CEO. He loved running, travel, camping, fast cars, his daughter, son-in-law, and grandsons, Peoria, the Riverfront Museum, and martinis with blue cheese olives. You can read more about him here.

I waited until the last day to go to the estate sale. I've only been on Skyline Drive, a road with no access at the top, a couple of times. The Vergon house was almost at the pinnacle. I parked and joined several other people in the home. 

This was the third day of the sale, so many of the contents had been picked over. As I roamed through the modern home, I saw artwork and Christmas decorations some books and a couple of closets full of  clothes. As I thumbed through the very nice suits, I felt like a voyeur in the life of a person I didn't know and who was now gone. This home had been his private space filled with things that had meaning for him--perhaps they were gifts or items that he had collected in his travels over the year. 

I imagined him coming home from his big job at CILCO, changing out of his suit, getting a drink and unwinding from his day, as he looked at the beautiful view of the Illinois River. 

He probably entertained at Christmas with family and friends appreciating the holiday atmosphere he created with all of his decorations. His daughter and grandsons would have been frequent visitors.

Now, strangers, including me, were sniffing through the dregs of his life, like vultures, and offering rock bottom prices for what was left. I tried to envision having an estate sale at my parents' home with the same set of strangers, or a similar one, eyeing up my precious memories as to their desirability and worth. No way. In the end, the only thing I took from the sale was a photo of the gorgeous view on this April day.

Later, I relayed my feelings about this sale to my friends who frequent the sales. "I was like that after going to my first estate sale," said one. "But you get used to it." She recently got a great price on a beautiful sectional. 

You probably do get used to it. And I can imagine the deceased not caring. He's moved onto a higher realm. But for me, the living, it was disturbing. Beyond the invasion of privacy, the estate sale is a symbol of how temporary life is and how our things, which is some cases, serve us well in this life, are of no use in the next. As precious as they are to those who remain, they are only reminders of those we love, and not their essence. That essence we can find in our hearts.