Last summer, as a way to procrastinate the house packing, Steve and I sold some shit from the attic on eBay and made some money with it. A box full of old VHS tapes? Really? At the same time, we also got hooked on some History Channel shows like American Pickers and Pawn Stars. So, it was a short step towards our new hobby – going to Estate Sales. 

During the week, I scan the ads for the sales and then show up bright and early Saturday morning with the kids occupied by video games in the car. We're in a good area of the country for estate sales. Lots of old people who have been in their homes collecting shit for generations. 

At 9:00, a crowd starts waiting on a line outside the house. My fellow shoppers are a mixed crew. Illegal aliens looking for old clothes and egg beaters. Mechanics looking for tools. Serious collectors who will beat you senseless over a mid-century chair with good lines. 

The homes are in various states of dishevelment. And they reek of death. Like the booster seat on the toilet. 

I suppose that hardened Estate Sales goers have distanced themselves from the idea that a person actually lived in this home and died here, but Steve and I are newbies. 

The homes are often one step away from the wrecking ball. Water damaged floors and peeling paint. Kitchen cabinet doors hang from one screw. As I walk through the home, it takes a while to focus on individual things, because I can't get over the fact that a person, a real live person, lived in there. 

And then there's the mad collections of stuff. The weird things that people cling to. Magazines from the 1970s. Mis-matched mugs. Old TV sets piled up in the basement. 

What kills me the most is the deeply personal stuff that was left behind. Family photos and papers documenting military service. Did nobody in the family want this stuff? Where was the family? Why had they let the old dude expire like this and let this pit bull from the estate selling company auction off the valuables? 

Sandra Tsing Loh writes about the difficulties caring for her 90 year old father. 

My folks are, thankfully, still relatively young – 70 is the new 50! – and are healthy. However, my mom got stuck holding the bag caring for old people who aren't even relatives. She would love to walk away from that burden, but without my mom's  help managing the health care workers and processing the bills, these old ladies would have ended up over-medicated, propped up in a wheel chair in an old age home. Actually, they would have died five years ago. 

I'm not sure what the solution to all this is. Loh doesn't provide any help. Clearly, the health care bureaucracy needs to have clearer, fairer rules. Nursing homes need more oversight. Yet, there is a limit to what government can do here. This is one burden that can never be outsourced completely. In the meantime, old people need to go into those final years with grace and composure. 

Old age and elder care is  such a bummer of a topic that the tendency is to put off thinking about this. With Baby Boomers hitting that 70 year old mark, we can't put this topic on ice forever.