I was so much older then…

We live in a house that is probably just big enough for two adults, two children, and a 13 pound dog. I sometimes look at it and think of the homestead as Mr. Creosote: put one more wafer-thin mint in it and it will explode all over Paris Mountain.

Though garage sales make me think of nothing but suburban ennui and flea market capitalists, I agree to having one about every five years, just so I can feel comfortable that the house isn’t going to explode. The wife seems to love the process (it’s something in her TV producer-driven and organizational mind). I am only looking forward to it because it will make my house less crowded (and I intend to serve booze to the morning shoppers, just to see what happens).

That’s a long preamble into how, in the search for junk to discard, we found this 17-18 year-old picture. I post it without comment or explanation, because neither would be sufficient.