Part 1: The Wood Wardrobe
I did it! After nearly 30 years, I moved from my “forever home”. Because the move was over 600 km to another province, I wasn’t keen on moving ALL my stuff, especially the heavy furniture. What to do?
Family members expressed interest in a couple of antique heirlooms, but the issue of the old wardrobe remained. This clunky, old piece of furniture was a permanent fixture (or so I thought!) in my parent’s bedroom on a farm in small-town Saskatchewan. It housed not only my parent’s clothing but my and my brother’s clothes as well. Not to mention a box of chocolates at Christmas and a bottle of Martini & Rossi vermouth that my uncle would bring every summer my city cousins came to visit. My parents did not imbibe in alcoholic beverages. Yet, for some reason, when my uncle brought a new bottle of vermouth at the next visit, he was surprised that the level in the previous bottle had not dropped.
When my parents moved to town, the old wardrobe did not find
its way to their new residence. So, when I bought my forever home, I was keen
on taking possession of this piece of furniture. I had my own graphic design
business at the time, and it was the perfect size for storing my paper samples,
trade magazines and art supplies.
A trip to the vacant farmhouse revealed squatters had
invaded the old wardrobe; a family of mice made it their home. They were given
their walking papers whilst I thoroughly cleaned and disinfected my prize
possession. A trip to the hardware store resulted in a purchase of several
boards, l-brackets and screws which I immediately put to good use by creating
several shelves within the top portion of the wardrobe. I also installed some
corkboard on which to tack memos and inspirational quotes to one end of the
unit.
When the time came to move from my forever home, I was torn about what to do with the wardrobe. On the one hand it was utilitarian and a sentimental piece to part with. On the other, it was old, clunky and heavy. I toyed with the idea of removing the handles and getting it hauled to the dump. But then I remembered Kijiji. That’s it! I’ll post it on the online selling site and maybe someone will find a new purpose for it.
Rapidly, I took photos of the unit from several angles,
including the inside, and placed an ad. After three days, Sahid (not his real
name) is the only person who seems interested.
“Is this still available?” he asks.
“Yes.” I respond.
“What are the dimensions?”
That is posted in the ad, but I repeat the information.
“Will you take $40 for it?” he asks, quoting a price under the
amount I’m asking.
“Why don’t you come to view it first to ensure you really
want it?”
“I can tell what it looks like by the picture. But I want to
see the complete inside. Can you take a picture of the other half?”
I explain that the other half is exactly the same as the
photographed half.
“Do you deliver?”
“No.”
“How heavy is it? I need to know so I can hire a truck.”
I explain that I have never lifted it myself and suggest,
once again that he come by to have a look at it.
“I can come today. 7 pm?”
I have another potential buyer stopping by to view another
sales item at 6:30 pm. I agree with the scheduled arrangement and await his
arrival. I wait. And wait. I haven’t had dinner yet and I’m starting to get
really hungry and more than a little frustrated. Plus, it will be dark soon and
I’m not crazy about letting strangers into my house after dark.
At 8pm, I message him, “Are you coming to view the wardrobe
tonight?”
“I’m still at the office. Tomorrow at 7pm?”
He better be here tomorrow, I grumble inwardly.
Tomorrow comes and goes and still no Sahid.
“Are you still interested in the wardrobe?” I message him.
“Bought another one.”
A lovely couple, Connie (not her real name), with teenage
son and driver in tow, arrive to view the wardrobe a few days later. Well, at
least the wife was lovely. She fawns at the wardrobe.
“This is perfect for the lake!” she enthuses. “My water can
go here at the bottom and my blankets and extra clothes over here.”
Her husband, meanwhile, does not share her enthusiasm. He assesses
the size of the wardrobe and the best way to exit the house. I recommend the
back door as the most direct route. He grumbles and proceeds to pick up the
heavy end of the wood wardrobe.
“What do you want this for, anyway?” he asks Connie as he
grunts and farts from the effort.
“Excuse him,” says Connie to me in aside. And off the family of three trundle with their prized possession.
Stay tuned to part 2 of the online selling culture when I write about the sale of my barbeque.
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Irene Pylypec 