The King’s Garage Sale

How I Thought Up “The King’s Garage Sale”

By Alan Nafzger

So there we were, early one Saturday morning, my wife and I, headed out for our anniversary breakfast. Yeah, that’s right, breakfast. We roll that way—none of that late-night romantic dinner nonsense. We believe in the power of pancakes and the unspoken bond forged over bottomless coffee. But that’s another story.

As we’re cruising down the road, I spot something. Out of the corner of my eye, this faded, old-fashioned garage sale sign, just flapping in the breeze like it had seen better days. Now, let me tell you, there’s something about garage sales that just speaks to me. It’s not the hunt for treasures so much as it is the oddball mix of junk people decide to sell. There’s a certain artistry in it, you know? The way someone can look at a broken blender and say, “Yeah, that’s still got value.” It’s like modern poetry.

So naturally, I made a detour. I didn’t even think about it, I just turned the wheel.

Now, my wife—bless her soul—is staring at me like I just ran over her cat. “Alan,” she says in that tone of voice that’s half question, half threat, “It’s our anniversary.” And I get it. I do. Anniversaries are sacred, right? A time to reflect, celebrate, and all that sentimental jazz. But here’s the thing—I’m staring at this sign, and I look at the neighborhood. Not your regular garage sale area. No, sir. This was high-end garage sale territory. It had that air of ‘hidden gem’ about it. No dilapidated houses, no lawn mowers on their last legs—nope, this was the kind of place where people sell off quality stuff, probably because they’re upgrading to something even fancier.

And then it hits me. Like lightning. I say to her, “But look at the neighborhood, honey.” And I add, like the convincing man I am, “I don’t see a lot of cars, so we’re probably early. You’ll get first pick!”

Now, she sighs the kind of sigh that says, I married this man, and now I must live with the consequences. But she’s still intrigued, so we pull up. Of course, there wasn’t any George Strait memorabilia there—let me burst that bubble right away. But my imagination? Oh, it was working overtime. As we were walking around, browsing through the usual assortment of dusty lamps, half-used candles, and some guy’s outdated golf clubs, I started thinking, What if?

What if this wasn’t just any garage sale? What if we walked into a sale where the stuff for sale wasn’t your everyday household junk, but the stuff of legends?

So, mid-detour on my own anniversary celebration, I got this ridiculous but somehow brilliant idea: What if George Strait, the King of Country himself, held a garage sale?

And that’s when the wheels started turning. I could see it clearly: a sale where the average shopper isn’t just walking away with some old blender or a rusty fan—they’re leaving with cowboy boots worn by George Strait, a Stetson he wore on tour, or even a jukebox that once blasted “Amarillo By Morning” on repeat. Can you imagine? I could. Heck, I was practically there already, bidding on the man’s Wranglers.

So, we finished our little pit stop at the actual garage sale. And I’ll tell you—there was nothing worth writing home about. But the idea was now lodged in my brain. As we sat down for our anniversary breakfast—yes, we made it to breakfast, don’t worry—I couldn’t help but spin the idea in my head, jotting down a few notes on a napkin while my wife lovingly rolled her eyes. I kept thinking, What kind of treasure trove would George Strait’s garage sale be?

The song wrote itself from there. What starts out as a couple’s anniversary trip turns into a journey to one of the most legendary garage sales in history. It might make an entertaining movie.  Sure, maybe it’s not everyone’s dream anniversary, but when you’re leaving with George’s boots and a signed flask that says “Drinking Buddy,” I mean, you’re basically best friends at that point, right?

And that’s how it all started. No elaborate backstory or months of planning. Just a man, his wife, an anniversary breakfast, and a garage sale detour that led to one hell of a song idea.

Now every time my wife sees a garage sale sign, she just sighs and says, “Here we go again.” And me? I’m still on the lookout for that perfect detour. Who knows? Maybe next year we’ll hit Garth Brooks’ neighborhood.