The Longest Yard

From what I gather, this sort of story is not all that rare along the route. I've heard more than a couple of vendors say things such as, "I'm gonna go fishing with that guy later this month when I'm up in Tennessee." For the most part, people who hold yard sales or vend antiques or barbecue chicken at community functions are people's people. They're talkers. They tell stories and invite people to come home with them. Names and addresses and phone numbers are scrawled on pieces of scrap paper. In this part of the country, blackberries grow free and wild on the side of the road, but BlackBerrys are few. Out here, it seems, people have a passion for sharing stories -- and anything else that might be duly appreciated.

At our next stop, I'm considering purchasing a metal tabletop, the kind that you find on old canning tables and baking cabinets, when the owner calls out, "You trying to think creative?"

"Well, yes, but I'm not sure I'm creative enough."

He walks over and starts giving his thoughts on what could be done with the tabletop. He's put a larger one on top of an old metal double-sided work sink. "That doesn't really go there," he explains. "We just thought we'd put it there. Then you'd have a place for your potatoes and a place to work." I wonder when I might have a trough of potatoes to prepare and realize it may never happen. I like thinking that I could cook multiple pounds of potatoes for a farm-size table full of loved ones, but I decide not to buy a tabletop. The man wipes his brow with the back of his hand. "I understand," he says. "It's a little too hot out here to really think creative."

We make a stop in Crossville, Tenn., where a gathering of vendors overlooks the Wal-Mart parking lot. They're selling what I've come to think of as expected merchandise -- rusty tools, salvaged antique stained glass, tarnished brass beds. The conversations seem to be at a minimum, so I'm surprised to hear a booming, "Hey, y'all," directed toward us when I pick up an ornate metal hinge. Matt and I turn to see a dark-skinned man with a goatee. "That hinge is in the Eastlake style," he tells us before proceeding to give a mini-lesson on architectural history. He then leans toward us and asks, "You want to see something you've never seen before?"

We nod yes, but Matt adds, "Just know, we're probably not going to buy whatever it is you're going to show us." The man shrugs, no matter.

He leads us into his white tent. The bright light of the day softens, as if we've entered a milk-glass cavern. The man, Michael Williams of Six Mile, S.C., leads us back to a wooden case. He reaches in to retrieve a small brass locket the size of a pocket watch and proceeds to give us a short course in the history of photography. "This is a daguerreotype," he says, shoving the metallic circle into Matt's hand. The daguerreotype looks like a hologram. As Matt moves it back and forth, the image of a bearded man's face fades in and out of view.

When the locket is safely back in the secured case, Michael looks up and asks, "Wanna see an original tintype of Wild Bill?" And so it goes, on and on.

By now we realize we should have reserved a hotel room for the night in advance. Some people do it a year ahead of time. But there's something fitting about physically searching out a place to stay on a road trip like this. After all, yard sales are about scavenging, about finding the unexpected.

Still, we become tense as the afternoon wears on and we hunt for a hotel room. We inquire about rooms at the Ramada, six left, but in our uncertainty about paying the going rate, we leave. By the time we change our minds, 10 feet later, there is only one vacancy.

The hotel parking lot is overrun with pickup trucks. Our own truck now holds various items strapped down with ropes meant to secure kayaks. There are no locks to be seen. All around us, shirtless men come out to retrieve forgotten items from their truck beds, and women come to get their hatboxes full of cosmetics and curlers. Matt wants to watch TV, and I want to write, so I take one of our wooden chairs and drag it across the sidewalk. For a while, I am alone with the hum of the air conditioner and the chirping birds, but before long, half a dozen people who have taken my lead join me on the sidewalk. One by one, they drag chairs out of their air-conditioned rooms, preferring to loiter in the shade of the awning. We wave and smile and swap small stories from the day, greeting newcomers as they pull in.

On our last day, Matt and I stop at a sale in the Head River community near Cloudland, Ga. The proprietor, Suzie Gill, started participating by dragging unwanted items into a neighbor's yard for a two-family sale. Then she moved to her own driveway. In the years after, she built a small wooden building and, finally, a larger metal building, since she needed more and more space. Instead of getting rid of things, she constantly accumulated more.