Tables lined the tree-shaded streets, each piled with stacks of well worn clothes, rusty tools, ancient household appliances, partial dinnerware sets and knick-knacks that no one wanted - all in all, your typical neighborhood yard sale.
"Mommy, mommy, look at me," my four year old son clamored from somewhere close by.
I looked around and although I could hear him, I couldn't see him, "Deke, where the heck are you, get your butt over here right now!"
"I'm right here, mommy," he giggled as he stood, the picture of innocence; three feet of mischievousness adorned by cast-off cowboy boots that came up over his knees and a rainbow colored sombrero that covered his eye.
Jumping up and down with excitement he shouted, "Buy me, mommy, I'm a cowboy!"