A Grand Garage Sale Hunt

The artistic productions within San Francisco garages, kitchens, and driveways

It’s a Sunday afternoon in San Francisco. The sterling fog is consoling, much like the solace of rain in my hometown — Seattle, Washington — where it rains more days than not. Today, the fog muffles my surrounding world in comforting layers.

We’re about to go garage sale hunting, an activity that my mom and I loved when I was a kid. I sense a piece of home in our upcoming scavenger hunt. The feeling, not the place.

Our first stop is in Potrero Hill, a residential neighborhood just across the Bay Bridge known for its view of the bay and surrounding skyline. After an impromptu photoshoot, our group put together our foggy minds to locate our first garage sale of the day. We ask local neighbors, decipher potential fellow garage-sale-hunters, and scrupulously deconstruct the vague Craigslist description. And before we know it, we are welcomed into a warm and visibly loved home on Mississippi Street.

It’s a funny thing, being welcomed into a stranger’s home. I feel the need to tip-toe across the floor. You don’t live here. You’re a guest. Proceed with caution. Always ask for permission. Frequently say thank you. It’s like my mom holds my hand, whispering in my ear as we walk through the house.

I soon relax into the home’s calming embrace. There’s a lively assortment of items in front of me: shot glasses, a compass, lace doilies, a tote bag, old cameras, a birthday card. These scattered belongings tell a narrative of a home that has lived a life of its own.

The living room table’s finish has eroded away — someone hasn’t been using a coaster. The kitchen’s beige wallpaper is peeling at the sides — who’s been using the stove without turning on the fan? Every few steps, the floorboards squeak a bit — how many families have lived here?

The hosts are delighted we’re here. Relieved, even. They’ve lived in their San Francisco home for their entire lives and are eager to move, preferably with much less stuff.

“We’re moving to Southern California to be closer to our family,” the mother says.

I ask — among other options (like donating), “Why a garage sale?” “I used to love going to garage sales with my mom,” she says.

I interject, “Me too!”

We connect through the joys of garage-sale-ing with our moms. It’s not about buying things. It’s about leaving a sacred space with gems in your pocket, items that mother and daughter uncover together. My mom and I would find the craziest things — dolls missing their limbs, glassware from centuries ago, sequin-adorned clothing that we really wanted to buy but never did. These sales bred snarky inside jokes, collective laughs, and the occasional tearful telling of a funny story.

We leave the Potrero Hill home, most of us with tote bags and trinkets of little utilitarian value. Along with a golden compass, a birthday card that I picked up for my mom now lives at the bottom of my bag.

Our next stop is a 5 minute drive away in the hipster Mission District. As we drive through, I proclaim to our car, it’s an “EVERYTHING MUST GO” type of sale, according to the Craigslist description.

A nostalgic, heartwarming scene approaches our field of vision as we drive up. Kids run around, screaming, fighting, playing hide and seek — all in good fun. Parents from the neighborhood chat over hobbies and homes. Before we even step out of the car, a large “Welcome!” is exclaimed by a few children smiling back at us.

We walk by tables with clothing spanning the past three decades, dig through boxes of a fashionista’s old shoes, and run our fingers through miscellaneous fabrics and scarves. There’s everything and nothing here. I don’t particularly want to purchase anything, but I have this unspeakable urge to consume, to pick things up, to search for something meaningful.

I leave with something I absolutely don’t need, a gold sequin handbag that my mom would’ve never let me buy. I can almost hear her mutter, “Oh, God. Don’t buy that,” as I giddily hand over three dollar bills to the host.

We gear up to leave the garage sale and thank the hosts, and I realize that in our time as visitors, we’ve become guests of a neighborhood block party. Between the adults chatting about their homes & hobbies and the children playing hide-and-seek, I can’t help but gravitate towards the exhilarating hideand-seek game.

Our next stop is in Midtown Terrace, a neighborhood nestled in the abundant greenery of the San Francisco hills. It’s a dense but charming neighborhood with beautiful views of the city, the Bay, and the Pacific Ocean.

After two garage sales, you could say we’ve approached garage-sale-expert territory. We’re prepared. But what we drive up to is not your average garage sale at all, it’s a party.

Upbeat music echoes throughout the driveway. Bowls of popcorn are scattered around the display tables. We’re standing in a beautiful rainbow palette of handmade pieces of jewelry, abstract DIYs (purses made from basketballs, plant pots made of cowboy boots, etc.), and my personal favorite — a box of t-shirts and sweatshirts for which the host will tell you, “You can have that for free; it was my ex-boyfriend’s.”

Though perhaps the best part was the “Free tequila shot with each purchase!” — not only for the customer but the hosts, too. That’s what makes this a celebration.

Garage sales aren’t economical. I mean, you might make a couple hundred dollars, give or take, depending on what you’re selling — but no one really does it for the money. The free tequila shot was proof.

In preparation for this article, I actually read a couple of anti-garage-sale pieces. And let me tell you, these authors were no fun. Sell your precious items at a pawn shop. List your used clothing online. Donate everything for a tax deduction.

But here’s what anti-garage-sale propaganda fails to mention: everything about these sales is an art to be mastered. Gathering a group to travel through a San Francisco scavenger hunt beats any trip to the pawn shop. Hosting a block party that will form core memories for your children far outweighs any potential tax deduction. The free-tequila-joy on a customer’s face spurs much more joy than some Facebook marketplace listing ever could.
During our garage-sale-ing days, my mom and I weren’t just shopping. We were contributing to something greater — playing characters in an artistic, experiential production. This cherished art brings me home, perhaps even more so than Seattle’s muffling layers of rain.

Words: Robin Ying

Photos: Anette Brecko