I was at the rural auction, killing time while waiting to be picked up by my husband and... (Ahem... a long story that will be better told on my
No Ducks and Bunnies blog).
Inside the big building where they have the household goods auctions, I surveyed the scene. At the auction, week after week, one sees the same people, the junk and the antique dealers, the occasional curious, farmers, field workers, and many Hispanic, Ukrainian or Russian immigrants. It's a large loose group of people, some one says hello to, some one avoids, some one hands off unwanted purchases to... But everyone is there with the same purpose: to make a deal, to find the perfect, -or almost perfect- item, something to fix, to re-use, or to re-sell.
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| Inside the auction building |
There is something heartbreaking about the sorry possessions strewn around, the scratched furniture, dented appliances, faded clothing, ribbons and threads, used toiletries, greasy pots and pans, chipped plates, broken toys, and other junk, sold off by the box, the sad remnants of torn, displaced lives.
