Is it coastal? No.

Is it farmhouse? No.

Is it cabin? Not even close.

Our home’s decor is Early Modern Garage Sale. Except for our couch, bed, and a few handcrafted pieces, virtually everything in our house is second hand. In the beginning, this was a matter of pure economics: we had no furniture because we had no money.

Rummaging, picking, or junking initially served two purposes.

First, we could acquire our home goods for a fraction of the cost of buying new. This was essential when we were looking under seat cushions for change to buy a quart of milk. Five dollar chair here, night stand from the free pile there. Bit by bit, we acquired furniture.

Second, it was cheap entertainment; a scavenger hunt of sorts. A hunt where we might not know exactly what we were looking for. Our furnishings have traveled more than we have: a table from San Francisco, a bird from Oaxaca, and a papyrus scroll from Egypt. Even if I indulged in a non-necessity — it was a yard sale item, so it fit in our nonexistent budget. Of course, raising kids this way warped their outlook of the world. My youngest, Phoebe, didn’t know that glasses came in sets of four until she was 15. My oldest, Chloe, dreamed of the day when we would have matching tableware … like normal people. Picking probably had the greatest influence on my son, the capitalist. For Quin, yard sales were a fantastic opportunity. He loved the hunt, the unexpected opportunities, and the chance to make a fast buck. When he was about 7, Quin showed his true colors with the purchase of a circular chair, a Papasan chair. It was electric blue, undeniably uncomfortable, but extremely cool looking. Entering the garage sale, Chloe spotted it, hesitated and browsed through other potential treasures. Quin swooped in, making the $5 purchase. At home, he set it up in his room to the admiration and jealousy of his older sister.

From there, Quin kicked into Tom Sawyer whitewashing-the-fence mode. He never missed an opportunity to expound on the virtues of the chair. Sure enough, by the end of the week, the chair was located in his older sister’s room.

The price tag? A mere $15. P.T. Barnum would have been proud.

Sooner or later, though, the stuff accumulated. The answer? Hold our own yard sale. We lived between Franklin Falls and Vermontville, not exactly the Mecca of Commerce. The only way to attract customers was to join forces with our neighbors.

The neighbors were in; they had junk too — five households worth of accumulated treasures. Assorted items began to fill our garage: tools, toys, and teapots. The kids made a lemonade stand. A witty ad was posted in the classifieds. We posted encouraging signs every half mile for a 10 mile radius, so potential customers wouldn’t give up in transit. We were set for success.

Sometimes, though, success needs to be redefined. All-in-all, maybe five people came.We made around $17 — mostly from the lemonade stand.

But the neighborhood had a heck of a time swapping both stories and goods. Our dining room table went to our neighbors; theirs came to our house. A sewing machine was carried up the street, but an exercise bike made its way into our basement. And all weekend, flocks of people picked away at the quintessential free pile next to the road, which provided hours of amusement for our kids.

Our household eventually achieved a homeostasis of stuff. Extras were donated or passed on. We liked our garage sale decor, and after all, why replace what is perfectly good?

The need was gone, but the call of the hunt lingered on. Friday’s classifieds were promising, Craiglist’s posts showed potential, and Saturday morning’s coffee offered motivation.For the first time in 27 years of marriage, Bill valiantly offered to join me in the quest.

The browse was plentiful. A fabulous cutting board in the shape of an unknown state — is it Tennessee, Vermont, or New Hampshire? A 6-inch-thick gardening book, which will turn me into a master gardener. A mini donut maker that will compete with Little Debbie for my husband’s heart.

As I picked up these treasures, Bill gave me a sideways glance, but held his tongue. It was then I saw the chair: carved oak, platform rocker. It only needed to have springs re-tied, the wood refinished, and a complete reupholster. In its restored glory, the chair would be perfect.

Bill’s eyes met mine. The conversation was short.

“Absolutely not,” Bill growled.

Apparently, I had reached my bag limit. At first, I resisted. The chair was a beaut and a bargain to boot. As the seconds ticked by, I reluctantly came to the conclusion: a good marriage is worth more than a good find. There will be no more taking of game. With the allure of the hunt suddenly dissipated, I vowed never to bring Bill with me again. At that moment I truly understood the bumper sticker I once saw.

“Going junkin’ with my husband is like going huntin’ with the game warden.”