A unique aspect of American living

Yard sales. I suppose they happen in most neighborhoods in America, and probably more so  in places like where we live in rural Virginia. I don't think there's a Friday-Saturday morning during the spring and summer that some sort of yard sale isn't going. During my morning walks for the past several years I have learned to associate a particular neighbor's yard sale with their hand lettered sign posted near the entrance to the subdivision. It's almost like for some, yard sales are a home business. Why anyone would want to buy an old junked power lawn mower encrusted in rust and grime is beyond me. Today I saw an old riding mower with no seat that had to be from the 1960-70 timeframe, and unless a person collects such things, I can't see any use for it. The other thing that amuses me about stuff sold at yard sales is the number of plastic, child yard toys that never seem to attract any buyer. The same plastic gym set, for example, always seems to wind up at the front of one of my neighbor's yard sale displays week by week. To use a well-worn phrase, one man's junk is another man's treasure. That is certainly true where we live.