My brother and I sat in tattered lawn chairs while I pushed a finger sandwich into my mouth. It was a few years ago and we were at my aunt’s house to celebrate a family reunion.

The vehicles of the attendees were lined up her long driveway and along the street. Fattening food sat on tables and people milled about. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon.

A car drove halfway up the driveway before two inquisitive people emerged. I did not recognize them, but that was nothing new. There were plenty of people at the party whom I swore I had never seen before, but who each claimed to have at least once changed my diapers.

Disturbing.

The two new arrivals did not say hi. They walked tentatively up the driveway while panning their heads from left to right. Finally, in the midst of great confusion, one of them asked me a question.

“Is this a yard sale?”

Holding back a smile, I explained that it was not. They put their heads down in shame, slowly herding themselves back into their dark-blue sedan.

Yard sale season is upon us again in Maine, a time when people grab rolls of currency and the newspaper classifieds and head off in true Lewis and Clark fashion to search America for great deals on ripped Bon Jovi posters, malfunctioning toaster ovens and “just like new” exercise equipment.

People filled with a lust for acquiring used merchandise tread onto people’s lawns in a race with others to see who can find the highest quality product for the lowest price. Oftentimes the search is difficult, but hope keeps them going. Like men searching for a quality woman at a bar, something strong yet unreasonable drives them.

My mother comes unglued when she drives by a yard sale. Something in her blood is calling her there, but occasionally a busy schedule denies her the opportunity. She will slow down anyway, exercising her ability to size up the sale’s potential inventory by considering such factors as the quality of home and the hygiene of its inhabitants.

If the people look rich then we can be pretty sure that their crap is of great enough quality for her to stop and shop.

The quality of the inventory is not always an easy thing to judge from the street. Oftentimes, I have to get out of my vehicle and walk up the driveway to scan the items. This is sometimes a very awkward situation, especially if there is nobody else there except the people running the sale.

Sometimes they stare at you while you try to not look visibly disappointed at what they’re selling. Other times they will appreciate your desire for privacy and continue doing their crossword puzzles, disciplining their children or drinking their Mr. Pibb.

I used to love having yard sales, but that was back when I was a young child and my mother did all the work. I would scrape the dirt out of the corners of some of my toys and lay them on a blanket, hoping that other children would be able to manipulate their parents into purchasing my fine products.

Times have changed. My wife recently expressed a desire to have a yard sale this year and I vehemently voiced my opposition. Based on my most recent experiences, I know I would end up spending very many hours making very little money, all the while unwillingly donating great amounts of blood to the local mosquito population.

I can think of better things to do with my time. At this point in my life, I would rather take all of our unwanted junk and give it to someone less fortunate than us; someone who could find a practical use for our once cherished items.

Someone who could probably sell them in their own yard sale.

Chris Quimby is a stand-up comedian and humor columnist who works as a computer technician at the BDN.