One of my favorite weekend past times was venturing out to garage sales with my dad. Perhaps that is the foundation of my cheap frugal ways, because if you can get someone else's junk as your treasure for a steal, why not?! My dad would often take me to garage sales on Saturday mornings. We left early, even before the Saturday morning cartoons were on (which we recorded on VHS before we left), when the birds were still chirping outside, the air was still cool with promise, and the busy streets by our condo were quiet because everyone was still sleeping. That's when we would venture out of our little condo together, my hair not even brushed (my mom wouldn't know because she'd still be sleeping) out of my face, my clothes mismatched as well as my socks, because we needed to beat the rush! I don't remember how far we drove, but I remember picking at the stickers on the inside car door that my mom yelled at me not to put on while my dad drove. I remember when my mom got mad at me for putting stickers on the car, my dad had just shrugged, "It's fine, just let her do what she wants with her stickers I don't care about the car that much anyway" to which my mom would howl back, "and that's why we can't have anything nice!" all in Mandarin of course. My parents never argued in English, their English wasn't that good yet and they weren't that comfortable speaking it in a speedy loud argument. I actually didn't even know my parents cursed in Mandarin until I grew up, the words were thrown away so casually, I thought it was just part of the Chinese language. Just another way for saying "this" or "that" but later, I learned they were obscenities only spoken in a fit of rage. As for English curse words, we weren't even allowed to say, "shut up," much less any other bad word that we saw them say on American television.
We would drive around, my dad always had a wad of cash that we would use to purchase a few trinkets he would take home and see if he could fix. He'd be successful about 25% of the time, but for the price, it couldn't be beat, he would tell me! I think that's where we got our first carousel slide machine which I loved messing around with and he would always scold me to stop touching. My dad didn't scold me much, that was more my mom's role. My dad was the lovable nice parent, the one you could ask anything for, and he'd sheepishly say okay. But not when I touched his photography stuff. He was serious about me not touching the lens on any of the fancy equipment he got because he loved taking photos. He had all the latest cameras and videography stuff and he worked hard to capture all the moments in our lives. I don't remember my dad ever being without a camera. And a lot of times, we would find accessories during our adventures garage sale hopping.
I loved going with him to explore the treasures of American families, just like the ones I saw on television, and also people watching, not the ones shopping the garage sales, but the ones holding them. The women always had big hair, puffy bangs or curly hair, a look my mom tried to replicate, but just looked odd. She wouldn't let me perm my hair, it was too expensive, so I enjoyed looking at the neon shoelaces the American girls put in their hair, wondering if my own mom would ever get me one of those. I had hair stuff from Taiwan, usually with cute little characters or elastics that had big balls on the end instead of big bows and ribbons. But I never found big bow clips at the garage sales. In fact, most of the time there were barely any kid items, but I'd always find the section of old books, a few plastic toys - usually firetrucks, and old stuffed animals. I'd enjoy perusing the limited child sections by myself while my dad roamed through the old electronics on the tables.
Most of the garage sale we went through was me exploring old stuff from these American families, wondering what it was like for them to sit around for Thanksgiving dinner. There were gravy boats and pitchers, big serving bowls, and mismatched plates and bowls. I also noticed a lot of cute signs I wasn't used to seeing in our own home, we only hung stuff up if it was red and for Chinese New Year's. I loved it! Ever single inch of exploration, like stepping back into time and their homes, recognizing all these hobbies they had that we didn't. Soccer balls. Footballs. Hockey sticks. Roller skates. Knee pads. Gardening tools. It was reflective of what I had seen on television, the place where I received most of my American cultural education, besides school. The teacher would always ask what we'd eat for Thanksgiving dinner, but I'd always just listen, never raise my hand. I didn't want my peers to know I only had sticky rice and roasted duck, among other Asian dishes, and that I didn't know what gravy or mashed potatoes were until our family would eventually try it from KFC for Thanksgiving in a few years. Instead, I just focused and listened. But at these garage sales, I remember imagining myself in their families, asking to pass the dish (we ate family style) or holding hands with a prayer before we ate dinner and having a home with useless decorations, just there to be cute. What an idea!
Once I was in the kid sections, I would usually trace my fingers along each old firetruck and doll, wondering about the American kid who owned it, how many toys they must have had, and how great that must be. One time, I remember seeing a popples, to which I begged my father for, and was so happy to bring home, even with its slights of dirty that we couldn't rub or wash off. It definitely had been loved. But it would continue to be loved my me. I had some toys, but not a lot. My mother didn't believe in toys, and she still ridicules my kids for their enormous collection of "crap" as she calls it. I certainly developed quite a bit of creativity from not having many toys, but I still wanted some more, I was just too scared to ask for it unless we were at a garage sale, and if I'm perfectly honest, that's actually the real reason I went with my dad every weekend. At the hope of maybe finding some good stuff in the kid section.
I would eventually get my first Barbie in a few years, and I'd end up amassing SIX barbies, a number I believed to be so great in power and strength, until my mom let me subscribe to the Barbie magazine our school fundraised (by accident of course), and I'd gorge over every single page wondering how children could own so many Barbie dolls. Didn't they know they were at least $13 each at Target, a number I always had in my head when I would turn to the Barbie clothes that were only $1.99 or even better, 99 cents at the local Pic'n'Save. I knew they weren't actual Barbie branded clothes, but they still fit the few Barbies I had just fine, so I continued collecting them. I would always look for Barbie dolls and clothes at the garage sales over the years, but the only thing consistent from every garage sale was that there was never any Barbie stuff. Never. But that didn't stop me from hoping. And perhaps that's why I liked weekend garage sales so much. Why I even take my kids now and tell them how I used to go with their gongong every weekend, hoping to find some treasures! I learned patience. For the Barbies would not be found there, but I would keep looking and I would be patient. I learned hope. For I would always hope to find something amazing at a low price, and my popples would prove hope does exist. I learned to imagine and pretend what it was like to be part of those families, to not be eating rice everyday, and to be celebrating American holidays like everyone on TV did. And it's not that I didn't love my own family and our own traditions, I just didn't understand why we were so different back then. As an adult, I treasure our differences and the experiences I had, the culture and the ways we celebrated. But now as a kid. Perhaps most importantly, I learned what a good deal was and what sort of things I should really pay full price for and how to distinguish junk from junk treasures.
