by Emma Riley Sutton

Created on: March 23, 2008   Last Updated: June 25, 2008

No one goes to garage sales like my mother. She is the perfect little boy scout - always prepared. Always prepared for anything. She wears her comfy shoes and brings an extra pair in case of muddy yards. She brings her maps, snacks, money, even items to trade or barter with. She has detailed notes she makes from the ads in the newspapers. She has her sunblock, sunglasses, and umbrella. If she thinks it might be useful, she brings it. She loads up the car and off she goes. As well prepared as she thinks she is, one particular Saturday of garage saling left her scarred for life. She now adds one additional it to her endless supplies.

It started out as usual. The car loaded and me, unwillingly roped in to go, in tow. Street after street, sale after sale, we went. She picked up every item in each sale, carefully examining it. The slightest flaw means savings and savings was the name of the game. The hours dragged by for me. I had no interest in garage sales; I had a college term paper to write and a final exam to study for. Still, despite my protests, on we went. Street after street, sale after sale...

About halfway down her list, was a garage sale that looked particularly interesting. The seller had a collection of salt and pepper shakers. My mom's weakness. Her passion. Her ultimate goal. She had stars in her eyes as we pulled up the long driveway. She barely turned off the car before she was all but running to folding tables decorating the front lawn.

Reluctantly, I got out. If I didn't, she would holler for me to come and look at whatever treasures had captured her eye. I made my way toward her. I was not looking forward to this particular garage sale. She would look over each and every set of salt and pepper shakers and then dicker with the owner until she got her way. If it didn't go her way, she would stomp off in a huff. And, I would hear about it for the next several weeks. This wasn't the usual shopping. This was salt and pepper shakers.

I slipped away from her to look at the books for sale. Books were the only reason I went to garage sales with her. No. Guilt. Guilt was the main reason I went with her. My mom is the ultimate Queen of the Guilt Trip, a journey she sent me on far to often. Believe me, it is no vacation. Caught up in the books, feeling almost guilt-free for not sticking to her like glue, I lost track of her. Then, it happened.

The most terrifying and loudest shriek ever shook the entire front yard. I knew it was her. Someone must be trying to

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