Do we need another set of Pyrex pie plates?

Remember slide carousels, or steam irons with a plastic reservoir outside the iron, or those plastic “onion-flower” makers, designed so you could deep-fry your own Vidalia onions at home?  They were all on offer at the garage sale this morning at St. James Church, part of the village-wide Canada Day celebrations.

Greg is carrying out an unidentified electronic antique.

 And proving there is a buyer for (almost) anything, someone actually bought the slide projector; apparently a group he’s with has lot of slides and no way to show them. He declined to take the screen, however.

Which plants should he buy - maybe that pink basket in the lower right?

The rule is what doesn’t sell, you haul home again: not a happy prospect, so you tend to price realistically. The baby stroller I bought for $20 five years ago sold for $6. Greg’s bamboo étagère, with as-yet-unbroken glass shelves, a striking object for any room, was eventually bought by someone who intended it for his study.

Oh goodness, customers are  arriving, and not all the tables are out! 

Oddly, unlike the Christmas bazaar, Greg did not open the proceedings with a prayer. When I asked him about this he said, “It’s just not tradition.” Tradition has been left in the dust because there seems to be no official start time, or, there is a start time, but like many other ruless around here (like driving motorized vehicles on the hiking paths, but I digress), it is honoured in its breach.

The sale starts officially at 8:00 — an hour earlier than previous years to accommodate early birds. The 9 on the sign has clearly been written over to make an 8, but when customers arrived at 7:30, as we were setting up, we let them buy things. This custom is a startling departure from what I am used to in larger centres.

The are still lots of boxes to unload!

Also, a local church, whose denomination shall remain nameless, held a preview yesterday afternoon, which was bad enough, but they actually allowed purchases to be made! I am still  surprised more people weren’t as scandalized by this turn of events as I was.

In any event, despite being hampered by such an un-Anglican head start, we were soon off and flying. The brand new rubber boots were snapped up, as was a very old beaten-up soccer ball, a pole lamp with a blue lampshade (you’d recognize it from the 90s), two white pleated lamp shades, wool, sets of floral dishes, a set of four scarcely used non-stick skillets, the prettier mugs, most of the Tupperware and, of course, perennials from someone’s garden (“Oh no, are all the hostas sold? Darn”).

Sometimes you have to be ingenious to insure a sale: I have brought a small pink wicker basket almost every year we have been in the parish. It had come home unsold annually until this year when I decided to fill it with herbs and sell it for $2. I think the dirt alone was worth that and yes, someone bought it — for the basil.

Alas we had a lot of unsold pink tablecloths and scatter mats – not as popular a colour these days as in the 80s. It was the same story with peach-coloured dried flower arrangements — likely early 90s in both colour and provenance. However, the card table cloths sold quickly. Our Borat sound track sold, as did Adele’s first CD. A surprising number of books sold — but undoubtedly because of the church ladies’ being present, no one bought the paperback on how to mix drinks like a playboy bunny. They probably wanted to though.

Oh, I want those cookies!

The bake sale was pretty much history by 8:30. Butter tarts and pies, pickled eggs, the equivalent of two roasting pans of nuts and bolts, breads, home-made jams and jellies, and squares so sweet “they’ll make your teeth rattle” flew off the tables to the tune of almost $1,200.

The bake sale - before

The bake sale - after

My canteen sales were helped along by a parishioner who had to bake several dozen cookies for a do at the Eastern Star; she offered to buy four dozen from me and save herself the work of baking them. Done! As the day got hotter, we did a brisk business in bottled water, coffee and very strong tea.

All that remained of my 84 cookies and 50 Rice Krispie squares.

Lots of men came into the bake sale for something to eat while they toured the town, and they bought up the Rice Krispies Squares — not the young kids that I imagined would. My rhubarb custard pies both sold; however, remembering the unhappy tale of recent food poisoning arising from devilled eggs, I warned the gentlemen who bought them not to store them in a hot car since “the custard contains eggs.”

People arrived on foot, in pick-up trucks and cars, of course, and also in golf carts, which are a very popular way of getting around town, especially with a small wagon attached for all the children and purchases that don’t fit in the cart. There were even a couple of dump trucks cruising the streets. 

A perfect day for travel by golf cart

Anyhow, it was a great morning – and all over by 1:00 for another year.

The bake sale ladies - and one gentleman - take a well-deserved rest.

Dispatches from North Middlesex #9

Things are changing in Parkhill. 

On Main St., Kelli’s Family Restaurant has been sold. There is much speculation as to the nature of the new eatery. Rumour has it the owners are from west of here, perhaps from as far away as Chatham – and may be French. The previous owners were Greek, but spanakopita, tzatziki, and other delectables were never on their menu, alas. The signs in the windows now advertise “Want Home Cooking?” We in the low mobility exercise class don’t know if this indicates the new name of the restaurant or the nature of the cuisine. The chef is said to have worked at the casino in Windsor at one time, so we are expecting great things.

The shuttered dinner theatre is in new hands as well. A steak house will rise from its ashes, although I am being metaphorical as, unlike a previous incarnation of Kelli’s, it did not burn down. The marquee has been advertising an ABBA night on May 23 for the past three or four years, so this development is a welcome change.

And wonder of wonders, the Saturday Globe and Mail is now for sale at the gas station downtown; there are only six copies, so it is wise to get there before noon. 

Our little village is expanding its horizons in other ways too. Over at Tim Horton’s, a customer placed an order, then went out to his car and returned with something in his hand, sat down at a table in the corner and appeared to say prayers. At exercise class, we concluded he was probably a Muslim and definitely evidence of our growing cosmopolitanism. In fact, the North Middlesex Christian Ministerial Assn. in which Greg is an active participant, may need to expand (and change its name) if this trend continues.

In the meanwhile, preparations are underway for Christmas. Lest anyone think we are overdoing the cosmopolitan thing, it is still called that here, not Holiday Season. And there is a nativity scene on the piano at the Leisure club. I have been tempted to wish people a Blessed Advent but felt that might be going too far in the other direction. Going to extremes is frowned on around here.

In any event, no sooner were the boulevard gardens and hanging baskets put to bed for the winter, than it was time to decorate Main St. for the Santa Claus parade. The sturdy ladies of the Horticultural Society collected greenery from the woods at someone’s farm outside town. We then decorated the planters at the new parkette across from Kelli’s and hung swags on all the public buildings. Aesthetic ability was welcomed but not necessary (much to my relief, as my offering looked as if Dr Seuss constructed it). 

Being able to saw thick branches and climb ladders in the wind was more a more sought-after skill. As the new president of the Hort said, “If anyone has anything to say about our decorating, they can do it themselves next year.” So far only a couple of bows have been stolen, and nothing has blown away. 

The men attach the wreaths on the lampposts downtown, and this year, sadly, they did a sub-optimal job. They failed to fluff them before hanging them. I have the same problem with my man and our artificial tree: You really do need to stand the little branches up for an effect of fullness. However, those who decorated the pine trees beside the Post Office did a splendid job of stringing the lights – as one of my neighbours said, “They look like proper garlands.”

The Santa Claus parade was a great success again this year. It is always held in late afternoon, while night is falling. Unfortunately, Greg and I were attending (a rather unaccountably well-lit) Advent carol service at the cathedral, so we missed it; as a result, my information is somewhat second-hand. Apparently the pouring rain let up a bit, and the street was lined with spectators.

 I must run now and finish the four mince meat pies I am making for the St. James Christmas bake sale.  The first year I was here I donated two dozen sticky buns. I felt quite proud of myself until I saw the other ladies hauling in stacks and stacks of baked goods. I am still not attempting such a feat, but I am rather pleased with my pastry.

One small serpent in the garden: I always fortify the mincemeat with lots of brandy, but when I looked this morning, we had none left, I suppose after too enthusiastically flaming last year’s plum pudding. I asked Greg if I could use some of his Drambuie or single malt scotch of which there seemed to be a plentiful supply.  For some reason, this otherwise mild-mannered man said, in no uncertain terms, that I could not. Goodness, was he still harbouring hurt feelings about my assessment of his tree fluffing? I hope not. He has agreed to brave the howling wind and the first snowfall to get me some brandy from the liquor store later this morning.