When we lived in Sydney we hardly ever went to garage sales. That was probably because so few people held them in the area we used to live.

Around Daylesford, along with Spring, garage sales are something to look forward to. Luckily, both occur at the same time.

Garage sales aren’t always comfortable places to shop. It seems a little insensitive to quickly sort through someone else’s stuff, while they’re watching, only to walk away empty-handed. So as not to offend, I usually try to buy something. 

With changeable weather at this time of year, holding a garage sale can be a little fraught. A couple of years ago I was the sole attendant at a g.s. where the wind threatened to dismantle a hastily erected tarpaulin and where torrential rain lashed the merchandise. Judging by the stuff that was on sale – doilies, blankets, hand-knits, glassware and crockery – the middle-aged sellers were unburdening themselves of their late mother’s possessions.

I bought a double-bed-sized blanket and a hand-knitted, dark blue cardigan, mainly because I felt sorry for the vendors, who were damply huddled around their cigarettes trying to keep warm. Both the blanket and the cardi have come in handy, especially during the Winter just gone, our coldest yet.    

On a bright but cold morning we attended a g.s. at a little house in the forest, where a young couple were selling their meagre cast-offs: faded ethnic fabrics, dusty paperbacks, broken plastic toys, rusty tools and an assortment of old gloves. Everything about the place looked poor. Having arrived early, we were the only potential buyers in sight. After finding nothing especially useful, I bought a pair of brown vintage leather gloves for $2 and the young couple beamed at me as if I’d spent a fortune. Fortunately, two more cars pulled up as we drove away.

At a g.s. at a big stone house, I bought some small terracotta plant pots that had been painted with varying degrees of skill by the g.s. holder’s children. I also bought a glazed pot that had gone a bit wobbly in the making. The whole lot cost a dollar. The mother and father of the children were separating and selling the family home. I couldn’t bear the thought of the children’s early artistic efforts ending up as landfill and small plant pots are always useful.

An air of intense sadness hung over the most recent g.s. we attended. We guessed that the women who were holding the sale had recently lost their mother. My partner took one look at the most prominent items on display – doilies, knitted pink and yellow cardigans, rusty garden tools, bric-a-brac, crockery and glassware – and retreated to the car.

I poked around until I found a large plant dish, wrapped in layers of mud, that had been given a mosaic treatment of indeterminate design. I also found a stamp album containing a few old-ish European stamps, and a collection of Golden Books, both of which I guessed had belonged to grandchildren.

When I was paying, one of the women told me that she’d done the mosaic herself. She said she’d given it to her mother to use as a birdbath and thought that it would probably clean up okay. Later I washed off the mud and uncovered tiles of blue, yellow and white and lo! – an angel fish appeared.

The birds are now contemplating whether it’s a safe alternative to the rusty make-shift bath they’ve grown to know and love.

If I were to choose the best item I’ve ever bought at a garage sale, I’d have to say that it’s our 1960s garden setting. I bought it from a charming elderly gent with a strong European accent. From his general demeanour and willingness to chat, I guessed he was a widower.

The garden in which the table and chair were displayed was immaculately groomed. When I asked the man whether he had the other three chairs to complete the setting, he said he’d have a look in the shed.

He opened the door to show stacks of old furniture piled right up to the ceiling and as he started to heave heavy items around, I went to the car and asked my partner to come and give the old guy a hand. By the time we got back, the man had retrieved two more chairs. Scratching his head in a semi-defeated way, he said he didn’t think there was another chair in there but if there was, it would be right at the very back. We didn’t press him to find it. For the table and three chairs, he charged us $40.

Now I might be a soft touch when it comes to garage sales, but I feel that spending more than I originally intended at one is much more satisfying than paying through the nose for a new, shop-bought item.

And as well as doing your bit to re-cycle, you might cheer someone up after their life has taken a worrying turn.