Childhood Bully Returns during the Estate Sale

Years ago, after moving my father from his Wisconsin home of 45 years into my California home, I hired an estate sale administrator to sell my parents’ belongings. Among those who attended the estate sale was my childhood bully. Before I get too far, a little background to set context.

My mother died almost four years prior, leaving behind accumulations; the result of saying “Yes,” too many times.

“Would you like this? It’s free.”

“Yes.”

Too Many Yesses

During the short Wisconsin summers, my parents went several times to the outdoor flea market to sell those “Yesses.” More often than not, they’d return with more “great deals” than they sold.

The house was filled with lots of “yesses.” Twenty-six pairs of quality German and Italian scissors. Baby Ben desktop analog alarm clocks among others. Lots of toilet paper; which my sister discovered, dries out over the years and is painful to use. Clothes detergent. Assorted colors and textures of fabrics bought on sale. My mother was a talented seamstress. Sadly, years of hard work maintaining a home and raising three children, plus genetics, caused her fingers great pain. Her sewing talents went by the wayside.

My father had stuff, too. Tools, screws, nuts, and bolts for ongoing repairs of an aging home and car. In his later years, he’d forget he had a power tool; so, he bought a new one. There were two and three of the same power tool. Jars filled with screws, nuts, and bolts lined the shelves in the basement. In the front room where an old icebox stood, old wood-slat boxes filled with plumbing supplies stood atop one another lining the walls floor to ceiling.

Siblings and I Took What We Wanted

Since I lived in California, I only wanted to move a limited number of things across country. My brother, who lived in our childhood home, took most of the tools to his business across town. My sister lived close by but didn’t have a key to the house. Still, she arranged to take some of what she wanted.

I chose sentimental things, like my mother’s Singer sewing machine. As a child, I’d sit on the floor nearby while she sewed. I’d pull open the drawers to play with treasures such as thimbles and needle threaders. I took the old wooden spoon (chapter 4 in the book, STUFFology 101). I took my mother’s old hand-crank meat grinders.

Time for an Estate Sale… uh ohhh, the Childhood Bully Returns

The following is excerpted and revised from pages 202 – 204, “The Estate Sale” in “Where’s my shoes?” My Father’s Walk through Alzheimer’s ©2015  Out of print.

Preparing for the Estate Sale and Advised to Not Attend

The day before the sale, a crew of helpers carried boxes from the basement and filled the entire back yard. The estate sale administrator made sure everything was arranged in an attractive fashion from the attic down to the basement.

She encouraged me to not attend. I wanted to have the experience and assured her if I got emotional or felt a need to argue with her about the price of my parents’ belongings, I would leave. Besides, I didn’t entirely trust her and her crew. The estate sale administrator tried to impress me with the stature of her prior clients. The only thing that mattered to me was her being able to sell as much as possible for the highest price.

Shooting Video Before the Estate Sale, when…

The following morning, shortly before the estate sale began, I wanted to capture the experience on video. I began narrating outside as one of the crew members shot a wide-angle view of the house. A van pulled up, the passenger door opened, and a little dog ran out and down the sidewalk.  A woman chased after, shouting at the dog. We stopped recording. The woman scooped up the dog, scolding it, as she carried it to the van. Then she walked up toward the front of my parents’ home and stopped to look at me.

Could it be? Noooo, it can’t.

The childhood bully had returned.

During the fifth grade, the bully and her friends would taunt me repeatedly on the playground. They circled around and slapped and punched me. When it was just her, I’d ignore her and walk away. But four or five girls were too many. Their constant bullying was humiliating and I would cry.

Over the years, she’d come to mind and I wondered what became of her.

“I went to school with your sister… or maybe, you! What’s your name?”

“Brenda,” I replied with a shudder. Really? Twenty-seven years later and my fear was still there? Yikes! I need therapy!

How old are you?

“Thirty-seven.”

“Then I went to school with you!”

I tried to get a grip; to compose myself. C’mon, I have a distinguished career. I’m a professional. I earned tenure as a professor and also consult nationwide. How can I let this bully still get to me?

I mustered a calm reply, “Oh, really? What is your name?” “Please don’t say it. Pleeeeeaaasse!”

She says her name. It’s her! Just to be doubly sure, I ask, “Are you the [her name] who used to beat up on me at school?”

Apology and A Little Mischief in Return for Long-Term Trauma

“Yes,” she replied sheepishly. She apologized and admitted she had changed. Hmmmm. Really? I tried to be nice, but a mischievous side of me did follow her through the house while teasingly introducing her to others as the bully who beat up on me in elementary school. Embarrassed, she’d furrow her brows and try to silence me by placing her index finger over her lips.

As she approached the estate sale administrator, I stopped teasing and introduced her as someone with whom I went to grade school.

The administrator totaled her items, she paid, and went on her way.

Those, waiting in line who had heard about her bullying, asked if I tried to pull her hair or kick her out of the house. The administrator looked puzzled. They explained, she used to beat up on me. The administrator looked at me and exclaimed, “I didn’t know she used to bully you. I gave her a discount!”