A couple moons ago, my husband, who was feeling adventurous one Sunday afternoon, drove down a gravel road we had never driven before. What we found was a lovely meadow by the river right down the road from our home, an avonlea is what I’d like to call it.
We finally had a free and quiet Saturday to enjoy this past weekend, so we filled up our picnic basket, restrung our fishing rods, packed our baby and headed down to the triadelphia resivoir during the cool of the morning. We stopped at a yard sale on the way. We saw a very cool old-school, miniature claw-foot tub. It was the kind you would find in an old farmhouse — the kind of tub you had to bend your knees and sit in while someone poured steaming water over your back. If we had a home of our own, this would be a very lovely addition.
For the most part, I never walk away with a yard sale purchase, but it always amazes me how much hope I have in every yard sale I go to. The hope that I will walk away with some hidden treasure. So, no, even though I usually never get anything, I don’t think I will ever stop going to yard sales, because there is always the hope that, “maybe this is the one that I will find something special.” I happened to pick up two doilies for .50 cents each at the one I went to on Saturday. I’ll be using them for my little girly’s summer garden party next month, and then hopefully for a sewing project I’ve been mulling over in my mind.