Moving Sidewalks

Sidewalk sales can be, for some, a religious experience. As far as I'm concerned, the best thing about a sidewalk sale is the sidewalk itself.

I was raised in a neighborhood where it was difficult to fathom a world where Jews are a minority. Though my family's Judaism had little to do with the temple that was only a short walk away or, truth be told, a supreme being other than my mother (at least we were monotheistic), my Jewishness is unmistakable, indelible, as solid as the dense matzoh balls my grandmother made for me every Friday when I was growing up.

Even so, there have been some glitches in my belief system. Most notably, I shop retail. Always have, always will. My mother must have missed that day in Sunday School, the day they warned against paying full price. All her life, she has strayed from the sale rack, her faith in the direct correlation between discounts and diminished worth unshakable. The woman whose religious fervor renders her incapable of eating a bagel without cream cheese still cringes at the idea of a mark down. A sidewalk sale would make her skin crawl.

Though I ventured out briefly into a world where Gentiles far outnumber us, even married one of them, I have spent most of my adult life living in places where the percentages are ridiculously skewed in our favor, where we can almost forget the centuries of persecution and annihilation, where the assimilation and intermarriage that threatens the tribe with obsolescence seems only to make us stronger and more numerous.

The annual sidewalk sale here is kind of like the Days of Awe in July. It is a time for families to spill outside together in droves, to bask deeply in the sense of community, to reflect on the meaning of a beautiful summer day, particularly when it is filled with bargains. It is, as I said, for some people, a religious experience.

This year, I helped out in my friend's little shop, a bit off the main drag but close enough to attract crowds of deal hunters, particularly in the first few hours of the first morning of the sale. I cowered in my chair by the cash box, marveling at the intensity of the congregants as they recited price tags in unison and touched ancient garments with reverence. I spoke very little, silently devoted to my peculiar brand of full price Judaism and uttering an occasional joyful Hallelujah when somebody wanted to venture inside and feel closer to my God.

For me, the sidewalk sale can be spiritual and uplifting, but it has nothing to do with the shopping. (Although I did find a fabulous pair of shoes that, though discounted, was still overpriced, so I was okay with it.) In a corner of the world where nasty weather keeps us inside for much of the year, it's nice to just see people out and about, shoulders un-hunched. It's amusing to watch people wanting things that nobody has wanted all year, purchasing all sorts of ridiculous items they don't need, just because it's fun to feel as if you're getting something for nothing. It's harmless entertainment, good clean fun. Much cheaper than going to a movie.

And, no matter how few people you think you know, you realize how many people have moved in and out of your life in a relatively short period of time. I saw folks I had not seen in years, was comforted to know that I am not the only one who is no longer a young mother of small children who worship her, or at least occasionally think she knows something. The sea of humanity searching for bargains on the sidewalks of my town this weekend is filled with familiar faces, kind of like temple on the high holidays. It's nice to reconnect, catch up, reminisce. And enjoy the weather before the nanosecond that is summer around here slips away, and reflect on the miraculous beauty of an imminent autumn, which will bring newly filled racks of fresh, full priced merchandise

Sure, there are bargains, but the real joy of sidewalk sale -- well, you just can't put a price on it.