Original Owner of Jim-Denny's Estate Sale Jim Van Nort was best-known back then for being the heart of the famous Jim-Denny’s diner at 816 12th Street, Sacramento CA, with chrome stools, politicians, malt milkshakes, and delicious burgers.
and that you plan on waiting patiently until those in front of you finish their shopping inside the home. Thanks for understanding.
When she walks into the front room of her family home, decorated with all of her Mother’s, Grandmother’s and family heirlooms from her childhood reminding her of Christmases past, entertaining friends and family, her late Mother dressed in her Sunday best with hair high up, jewelry on, glistening in the candlelight of dinner crystal and fine wines on every table in Waterford stemware sitting next to Lalique and Lladro ladies and kittens, Victorian silver teapots and linens, she starts to weep.
The bittersweet memory of her Father holding her Mother’s hand and asking her to dance in the large open space now filled with trinkets and treasures of days gone by, the scrimshaw bolos begging her back to her Dad being dressed up for outings to church or business meetings downtown, laughing with his hat on and walking out the door of her family home so long in their blood, so hard to give up and get out of it, is nearly too much for this woman to take.
My client can still remember vividly the color of the dress she wore on the night she went to prom, standing in that same room for pictures, holding tight to her boyfriend’s hand, with the same hand that now hold’s tight to her loyal husband’s, standing there in that same room saying goodbye to her childhood. Her own family she and her husband have created, raising her two strong boys within these same walls herself. Repeating the generations. Being the good Mom and now Grandmother.
She feels like a child, acting frightened and scared of growing old standing near all of these treasures, the old Ivory skeleton of the Japanese man that scared her and now scares her granddaughter, the beautiful carved ivory lounging lady, so erotic and intoxicating, belonging to another place and time, the Lalique nude lady sprawling up towards the moon, the tall and slender Italian and French music boxes, offering song and cigarette at once with each turn and tinkle of their mechanisms.
Every surface covered with items from old marbles she remembers playing with, sharp shooting medals of her Dad’s, early books and brass, Fostoria and dancing ladies, Wedgwood and sterling with coral and turquoise, cups and saucers collections and mud men from another place, fishing and wishing they were here now. She spies Bohemian glass in many colors, delicate Belleek dishes, generations of Hummel children and animals, hand painted both vases tall and short, Lenox for fancy settings, rugs and fishing poles and reels, cloisonné and ruby glass next to flash glass, even a black laminate buffet of Japanese design and decoration. The girl inside of her remember sitting on the small cast aluminum bench by the front door, posing like the cement statues of Japanese ladies by the pool, wondering about the giant cement lion so heavy it could outweigh any of
