By Mary Cristy

It’s been established by partygoers that nothing arouses more avid interest than a house with a “For Sale” sign. Cocktail party conversation livens up like a kitty with a ball of yarn at the prospect of probing for and sharing the pros and cons of divesting yourself of what, for most of us is our most beloved possession. In the words of a recently retired priest with whom I correspond, “For a noble senior, the number one gigantic task is closing her or his home and moving to another one. Hang tough!” For those of us who would rather stay than go, those words resonate.

He himself is “working at the task of packing and unpacking, throwing things out and deciding what to keep.” It’s a task bedecked with memories.

Another valued friend and reader observes “You’ve been writing about memories for years” and should begin to focus on “the sweeping changes” through which we are living. A whisper of need for improvement in other areas suggests I work at aging gracefully. How precisely on target he is, this strong, handsome male, with whom God willing, time may never catch up! Such readers who bother to send either bouquets or brickbats are gratuities that come with the territory and keep us on track.

“Think positive,” another scolds. Ruefully, I tell myself thinking “positive” is what helped me to survive as an antique and this is what predisposes one to cherish those shining hours when a loved one’s arms encircled and afforded one broad shoulders upon which to release tears held back too long.

Such moments light the way to the day a “For Sale” sign goes up, bringing dolphins and sharks into the equation.

Sharks prey upon a client’s vulnerability. Elders and younger sellers are meat for those who shake the confidence of their victims to paint bleak pictures of hewing to a course that will invite shipwreck.

Dolphins are the ones with empathy, sans dollar signs in their demeanor. They help to chart a steady course on a smooth sea that will lead to safe harbor. For them we thank the powers that be.

An “estate” sale empowers one to sift the wheat from the chaff, and we’ve been gratified, entertained, and uplifted by the many delightful visitors who have evaluated our merchandise to find what they consider “treasures.” A woman, an art lover, actually bought one of my paintings - an “islands” nude with a hibiscus in her hair to tell a possible lover she was as yet unspoken for.

My ego took a jump that never would have happened had not our peerless sales directors overruled my objection to putting out paintings I had hoped to improve someday when the spirit moved me. And there was a chuckle when the garbage man drove in and said, “Oh! You’re having a flea market. Wow!” So much for the “estate sale” euphemism.

With still no home to go to, I’ve been checking any and all choices from month-to-month offers, to apartments and accommodations in town where so many of my faithful readers and friends would continue to be readily accessible. Time runs out and in the words of a Bronx friend, I’m still “one step ahead of the sheriff,” which is the Bronx equivalent for “up a creek without a paddle.”

My priest friend in Montebello prays for me, as I do for him. He is already home. And I continue to hope I soon will be.