Voodoo Priestess Conjurs Polar Vortex

The Estate Sale ad in the Commercial Appeal promised “Selling Mother’s Things. Attic Emptied. Everything Must Go.”  My friend and I fortified ourselves with early-bird McDonald’s coffee and were certain we’d be first in line for this promising sale.  As we pulled up to the house of treasures, we were excited about a great parking place.  Something was amiss, though. The sign in the yard:  Sale Cancelled.

“Doooo…not…sell…my…things…,” intoned Mama who must have risen up to add some clarity to the situation. Enough said.

It’s been a few years since that adventure with antiques and archeological finds, so many years that I must have forgotten the lesson from Mama, the voodoo priestess. I’m currently researching the possible sale of my mother’s furs. She unloaded the fox stoles belonging to my grandmother, the stoles that had kept my grandmother fashionably warm and me occupied in church during my single-digit years.  It was the chomping mouth hanging on to a fox tail or a little girl’s finger that provided the entertainment.  PETA, forgive me for thinking it quite hilarious and glamorous.

I wore Mother’s coat once (a stroller, it’s called) in a NYC blizzard and felt both quite warm and quite unfashionable. Looking like an “autumn-haze” polar bear cloaked in what Mother purchased in the mid-1980’s, I sported no Coca-Cola smile and felt out of sync with fashion and the eco-friendly world.

 I wonder how much I could get for her stroller and the fitted stole?

A trip to Memphis and a noted furrier explained the racket.  I can’t get squat.  The trade-in venture for a nice stroller-length coat with modern style or a possible remake is a daunting procedure and almost price prohibitive since I don’t play the lottery.  Ebay or Etsy pricing is ridiculously low for these pieces. Driving home, I felt pin pricks. 

I think Mother has decreed what will be. When she moved in with me, she brought two moving vans to Memphis, each loaded with her treasures and family heirlooms. Regardless of the era to which these treasures belonged, heirlooms are not to be sold.

Consideration of such a capitalistic venture calls forth the voodoo priestess who wags her finger and says, “You might be glad you have that coat. What if there’s a polar vortex?”

“Ouch!”