They say heaven is whatever you want it to be. If that's true....
* My father is up there harmonizing with the late country music legend Faron Young, known as the "Singing Sheriff." Dad always liked the story about Young arguing with a woman in a bar at 2 a.m.
"You're nothing but an old alcoholic," she snapped. "No ma'am," he barked. "I'm a common drunk."
* My dog, Elvis, is sleeping on a big, overstuffed sofa. And drooling.
* My grandmother is dipping snuff and watching "Secret Storm."
And when my time comes, I hope I'm heading to the ultimate library, full of books I've never read. Either that, or a yard sale. I love yard sales. But, truth be told, with a husband and a house and dogs and goats, I don't get up and go like I used to.
And make no mistake, around here you need to get up and go, as in 6 a.m. By 10 a.m. all that's left are rusty hamster cages and tofu cookbooks.
Thanks to my mother, I grew up thinking all red-blooded Americans left home before sunrise on Saturdays, clutching $50 in fives, ones and quarters. Mom's mantra was: "Always offer five bucks less." Confronted with a 10-cent barrette, I didn't know what to do. But I caught on fast.
I remember my very first "grown-up" pocketbook, pink wicker with a seashell clasp. It cost 20 cents at a sale in Valley Farms, a fancy country club development in Wilmington, N.C. It was so fancy residents didn't host their own yard sales: Their maids did. That still blows my mind.
Depending on the circumstances, yard sales might be called garage sales, tag sales, estate sales, moving sales or rummage sales. By any other name, it's free enterprise at its finest.
I have gone to yard sales with a fever of 102, and staggered to carport sales with a crutch under one arm. Once, acting on a hot tip from a neighbor, I flung a scarf over my bleaching hair and flew two blocks to a church sale. I bought hedge clippers (even though I had no hedge) and a bowl of plastic fruit-and made it back home before my hair turned white.
If I had gone to college with the same dedication I went to yard sales, I could write Ph.D. after my name today.
Once I tried to explain the mystique to my best friend, Floozy. "It's the thrill of the hunt," I said, "the excitement of chasing down a dull potato peeler and a frayed chenille bedspread. Don't you get it?"
Alas, she did not. Then again, I should have known better. Floozy has a personal parking space at the mall, wears Chanel No. 5 and gets her exercise wiggling in and out of cashmere sweaters. She would no sooner carry a used purse than a lit stick of dynamite. Yard sales aren't for the snooty. But if you love poking through someone else's junk, or relish buying three slightly-used coloring books for a quarter, then you're my pal.
Say, why don't you stop by bright and early Saturday, around 6 a.m.? I'll bring the coffee.

Julie Smith, who'd rather save 20 cents than drink beer, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.