My first thought at an estate sale is always the same: Hmm. I wonder what’s in there.

I’m nosy. A house full of things with price tags on them is an excellent arrangement for somebody who likes to know all the details.

Hopefully, there won’t be too many people.

Then I see the cars down the street.

Apparently, everybody else would like to know what’s in there, too.

This is usually when I wish I’d paid more attention to parallel parking while getting my driver’s license. I want to get inside, but first I have to decide whether I’m close enough to the curb or whether this needs to be a whole production.

And then there’s the driveway. Why do the ones I encounter always seem so steep? I’ve barely started shopping and already I’m considering my breakfast decisions.

There weren’t any. There was a giant coffee.

Hopefully, it’ll hold.

Let me see what you’ve got

Once I’m inside, the pleasantries and the looking begin almost simultaneously. I can say good morning and scope out a room. I’m very capable.

There’s so much stuff.

Of course there is. That’s what I came for.

I’m especially interested in the odd little things. The pieces that don’t immediately announce what they’re doing there. I want to pick one up, turn it over, work out whether it’s wonderful or just unfamiliar.

Sometimes I’m still deciding when I start imagining it in my house.

A scalloped lampshade, for instance. Give me one of those and I’m mentally moving lamps around before I’ve worked out whether the shade would fit any of them.

Meanwhile, somebody else is doing some enthusiastic shopping.

Now I’m trying to enjoy a leisurely browse while also keeping an eye on where she’s headed. I don’t even know what the good stuff is yet, but I would appreciate a chance to find out before she gets all of it.

I still keep an eye on her.

Somebody chose all this

There’s a particular pleasure in shopping somewhere that hasn’t arranged every object to suggest the same life.

A shop might put a lamp beside the chair it thinks you should buy with it. Here, I get to look at things somebody actually chose to keep. Some of those choices make immediate sense to me. Others need a little consideration.

I can admire an ornate mirror and know I would get tired of looking at it every day. I can love a set of glasses without wanting to wash six more glasses. There are objects I’d never have searched for that become interesting as soon as I can hold them.

The house doesn’t have to resemble mine. In fact, it’s more interesting when it doesn’t.

And I’m aware that these are somebody’s belongings. Curiosity doesn’t give me the run of the place. I stay in the areas open to shoppers, ask when I’m unsure and leave sold items alone. I can be nosy and have manners.

I can easily spend an hour or two in here.

I’m trying not to inhale the dust. I also keep finding things I want to pick up.

Then I notice the books.

Oh, books.

The enthusiastic shopper can have a head start for a minute.

I could stay. I could also eat.

This is what I love about going on my own: nobody needs me to finish with the books. I can examine something, put it down, wander away and come back to it. No one has to understand why I keep returning to a bowl.

Of course, eventually I have to consider whether any of these things are coming home with me.

The imaginary version of my house has plenty of space. The actual version requires a little more thought. A chair can be wonderful and still require a vehicle I did not bring. A silver tray might look beautiful, but I have to be honest about how often my evenings involve a silver tray.

By then, I’m also thinking about lunch. There might be a bistro stop in this day after all. Shopping can work up an appetite, and that coffee was being asked to do too much.

One more look at the books first.