The 80-year-old guy reminded me a bit of my dad as he walked slowly toward my garage to see what treasures he might stumble upon.

My dad makes that same walk whenever he sees a garage sale sign – or free pile. They are literally magnets to him.

And when the old guy asked me if I had any axes, he reminded me even more of my father, who almost always asks garage sale hosts if they have any guns.

I told him I sadly didn’t have any axes and we chatted about garage sales, axes, hatchets and guns – and we compared aches and pains and the injuries they stem from.

Over the next 45 minutes or so, I learned that this man has hundreds of axes and hatchets. It’s his hobby, he said, and visually bristled when I asked if he sells them too, almost like, “what are you crazy?”

I also learned, however, that his wife passed from Alzheimer’s six weeks ago. He didn’t say it, but he was clearly lonely and missing her, even in the shell-of-herself state.

I spoke about family and friends who are dealing with that insidious disease. He seemed to need to chat, and I wasn’t going to cut him off, even though I’ll admit to dropping a couple hints that I was ready to sign off, only for him to strike up another talking point.

I tell you this, because overall, my recent lawn sale was a huge bust.  

For at least three years I’ve talked about cleaning up the basement and the attic above the garage for an epic garage sale.

My daughters have been out of the house for years now, yet the board games, lacrosse sticks, tee-ball tees, college apartment lamps and oh so many books were still here.

So, this was the year.

Friday, from 9-2.

I’ll make some decent money and more importantly, get rid of a lot of stuff!

But basically no one came. The stuff remained.

So, I begrudgingly did it again Saturday.

Surprisingly, the rain came … The people didn’t.

Over two days, I bet there were maybe 15 people, but a couple of the interactions, including with the 80-year-old Clint Eastwood-looking man, made it worth it.

On Saturday, another guy came in, a mason, who was chatty. It was pouring outside, so for the next 30 minutes we talked about Bruce Springsteen and The Grateful Dead and countless other bands and we compared all the shows we’ve seen.

He also made my day by asking about a collage of Rolling Stone pictures in a crudely made (by me) frame out of cool old barn board. It was 1990 and I had just moved into basically my first real apartment on Glen Lake and needed stuff on the walls. That was a solution.

Jerry Garcia was prominent in it. So was Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Mick Jagger, Neil Young and even more obscure singers like Ricki Lee Jones. It was free. I just was hoping it would live on someplace and loved that this guy was genuinely into it, naming off all the artists he knew.

He also bought a Springsteen book. I told him he could have booth items. The poster had a “Free” sign on it anyway! But he left $3 as a gesture. That was cool too.

What made that interaction even better was when in conversation I said I used to write for the local paper, a light went off and he said, “David Blow?”  I was like, “yup.” And he seemed excited about the revelation. He said he read a lot of my stuff over the years, which made me feel great, yet led to another conversation about the sad state of local journalism.

To not get the poster wet, he went back across the street and backed his truck into the driveway, before smiling and leaving with it and the Bruce book. I was smiling too.

In two days, I bet I sold $25 worth of mostly small items.

It was a bust.

But, I do believe I have mastered the art of the free pile.

When Sunday came, the roadside was littered with Nordic skis, a bookshelf, desk, board games, baseball bats and even a hand-made pulk, which is a sled to haul kids while you cross-country ski.

Over 28 years ago, I concocted it out of a plastic toddler sled, two old Nordic skis, two PVC pipes and a wight-lifting belt. Garage sales also spur cool memories, by the way.

I remember pulling 7-month-old Kirsti through Cole’s Woods on a warmer winter day when globs of wet snow were falling from the pine trees. Occasionally, her little snowsuit (definitely not her head…) would endure a direct hit.

I don’t think she enjoyed it much, but I was proud of how well it worked.

It went on a few more runs before being banished to the garage attic, to resurface a quarter century later at a garage sale. One woman looked at it, smiled at it and asked about it.

“Does it work?” she asked, saying she’d love something like it to haul her grandkids around.

I assured her it did and told her the snow glob Kirsti story. She wanted it. I could tell. She bought a $2 kiddie pool and took pictures of the Frankenpulk to show her husband.

I joked that “he’s definitely going to say no.”

I think he said no, because it’s now in the back of the truck, with the gold chair no one wanted, some broken picture frame and other assorted free pile misfits.

I likely will do more free piles in the future, but I WILL NOT be doing another garage sale.

Though, perhaps if I’m in need of a story…