We used to call them that—the classifieds that filled the final pages of our local newspapers. And we really meant everything advertised for sale in small boxes, divided into categories that included jobs available, pets for adoption, garage sales, used cars, and teenagers willing to shovel snow or mow our lawn. Or apartments to rent and houses being sold by homeowners. Sometimes “personals”—people seeking companions. Items lost and items found.
Studied with a bit of care that newspaper section was a periscope into a community: relative prices, the job market, the housing market. For a long time, those newspaper “Want Ads” served as a town’s only employment agency and marketplace. Desperate for a job or a studio to rent, you had to get your hands on a current newspaper, circle the relevant ads, and find a phone to start calling.
That was then. Along came the internet and farmers’ markets and Zillow and employment agencies and Zip Recruiter—and dozens of digital methods of buying and selling and advertising. Most of which included photographs—here-to-for not really an option. Most are free.
And Facebook. For our community, a group Facebook site: Helena Classifieds. I now can’t recall why I joined a while back. Goodness knows I don’t need more furniture or “décor.” I’m decorated to a fare-thee-well. The toys I’ve saved for grandchildren will soon be surplus. And my retirement wardrobe focuses on the virtually-impossible-to-find comfy shoes.
But sign on I did. And some of the entries that I see in this season—appearing fast and furiously—are to be expected: artificial trees past their prime; boxes of Christmas ornaments; snow mobiles; wildly expensive tricked-out-year-old trucks; holly and ivy china sets that have been lingering on unreachable high shelves. Bunk beds from families whose children are growing; antique chairs too frail for holiday meals; dated stereo and TV stands; leather sectionals that won’t fit in the new apartment.
But many of the posts break my heart. Crafts for sure of marginal quality: knitted gnomes and hand-lettered barn-wood plaques; cocoa bombs. And then used items: My Little Pony sets; a box of Size 4T boys clothes; a hand-tooled fringed leather purse from the 70s; earrings with a bit of jade showing; an odd assortment of children’s books–sold job lot; a pair of name-brand high heels; stuffed animals—singly and in collections; five pairs of women’s polyester pants, size XL; a gold necklace; tool sets; new-in-box Sorels; bedding; fabric; a Transformer toy set; wedding shoes never “wore.” $15 will buy you two brunette hair pieces. $25 will get you an Italian silver wedding cake serving set.
The ads are laced with a variety of wiggle-worded claims: just needs polish; you’ll want to wash; right-corner scratch barely visible; almost no wear; gently-used; smoke-free AND pet-friendly home. And my favorite: has developed a patina over the years. The photos themselves offer the same mixed-messages.
I know that some mid-winter sorting may prompt these ads. Kids do outgrow clothes and toys fast. Christmas may bring an onslaught of new outfits and playthings. And ever since Covid, thrift stores here have been inundated—often closing their “receiving” docks. This isn’t the season for garage sales.
But given the items, their pricing, and their use, I picture desperation. Items cobbled together to maybe make a saleable grouping; sentimental objects —with a bit of monetary value—unearthed; thrift store finds that might play to a larger audience. Most likely, the efforts of moms and dads struggling to find enough cash to buy new Christmas presents for children. In fact, every now and then, a parent explains: “raising money for teenage presents, Toys for Tots doesn’t provide much for older kids.”
I picture—who knows how accurately—adults lying awake at night trolling through their possessions mentally—trying hard to suss out something that someone might buy. Even if the items will have to be replaced—like tools. Like Sorels—warm winter boots. Food or heat or gas or gifts needed more. These aren’t ads posted by Helena’s sizeable homeless population. Nor obviously by upper middle class adults cleaning during this busy season. More likely from people whose hourly wages just just barely make ends meet. But not in winter. And not at Christmas.
A few ads turn the question around. Beginning with “ISO,” in search of. Someone to shovel snow. A dining table with chairs. A free couch. Anyone traveling to Missoula on Friday. A lost dog. Again, both ordinary and desperate.
We are all truly ISO freedom from hunger, from the cold, from the ridicule of people who equate poverty with laziness or inability. Using the old terminology, we all want security for our families and those we love. Again—and here’s the fundamental, fundamental part: without strings. The strings that come with paperwork and embarrassment and prostrating ourselves to stingy bosses or charities. Even without the struggle to raid our lives of belongings. Or sell, if not our souls, things we prize.
I have never ever had to scrabble just to survive. Thinking about it alone twists my gut in anxiety. On my own behalf and for those I picture behind the Facebook posts. I am so fortunate—lucky—through almost no special endeavor of my own. Geography, parents, timing, access to education dropped the Golden Fleece of an extraordinary life in my lap.
And without even visits from the ghosts of Christmas past, present, or future, I’m remembering what Uncle Mike and Aunt Helen once did—my godparents in North Manchester, Indiana. Helen taught first grade; Mike ran the Standard Station on Main Street. They loved children but didn’t have their own. Mike played Santa most years, delivering presents to families—stealthily as requested by parents who also supplied the goods. And then without any fanfare or community involvement or waiting for “want ads,” “Santa” delivered gifts that Helen and Mike just quietly purchased for households that they knew could use some help. I remain in search of, wanting ways to make that anonymous generosity deeper, more automatic in my life. I don’t think that it’s too late. ©
