It’s tag sale time in Connecticut. No sooner do the leaves turn color than every telephone pole in the neighborhood is covered in arrows and Sharpied signage. That nip in the air seems to kick start what my dad once referred to as, “The commerce of crap.”
The subtle message a tag sale sends to your neighbors is: “I don’t need any of this stuff, but you’ll probably pay me for the privilege of rifling through my trash.” If someone were to say that to our faces, we’d probably punch ’em. Instead, we get up early so we can look through their offerings before the “good stuff” is gone.