“I have a lot of objects in my space, little things, reminders, memories.”

Marc Newson

In the depth of the cruelest winter since the battle of Bastogne, I said to God — we’re close — “If you get me through this I promise to go back to church, to pet mean dogs and smile at ugly girls and give up wine.”

The dogs and girls were easy.

Now here I am confronting the demons of summer: the biting, stinging things, deadly ticks, the gnats and mosquitos, soldier ants and damp cellars.

Well, at least I have the garage sales. Garage sales, like reality shows, rarely fail to provide a never ending carnival of amusement.

Across the wide expanse of our city, garages are thrown open and happy folks stand like Baghdad rug merchants over piles of debris they once thought they could not do without, most of it bought at other garage sales. I have even seen people buy a gadget that they sold years ago and have fallen back in love with. Oh yes, that was me.

These bargain basement bacchanals do not come without the occasional regret. I once saw a hysterical teenager clinging to the remnants of a ratty old kangaroo doll she hadn’t hugged in years. But now mama was tossing it, and daughter suddenly discovered that its pouch was a perfect fit for her iPhone.

It’s not all about laughs. It can get touching and you can come across ghosts, or someone who knew ghosts.

On a hot summer day in Hollywood I came upon a tiny bungalow in a neighborhood of tiny bungalows where once dreamers slept. A small woman, maybe 80 but still quite lovely, with soft gray hair folded back behind her ears, sat in the shade in a ribboned beach chair, while a gathering of teenagers picked through her belongings stacked neatly on a card table.

There were old menus from restaurants long closed, programs from gala Hollywood premieres, napkins and match boxes from long ago parties, when hair was slicked back and collars were starched.

On the table there were several antique frames of carved mahogany and silver and glass, that I knew must have held some images of people or places dear to her heart.

When I approached her, she was holding some photos in her lap, probably pulled at the last moment, from those frames, silver shots of sweethearts and lovers long passed from the moonlight.

The frames were of secondary importance to her, but the photos, black and white, still held magic for her. When I correctly identified one of the faces, she was stunned and delighted that someone as young as I recognized him. When I told her I was an actor, she really warmed up. She too was a film actress, years before I was born.

I could imagine she was, maybe one of the Goldwyn Girls, a darling of directors, a stunning starlet who danced a perfect tango. Even now, decades out of the lights, she had the kind of eyes and turn of the nose the camera loves.

She was so delighted that she gave me the one I knew, and pointed herself out in the garden party.

There is a handsome dark-haired man standing on steps in front of partiers in a garden.

I knew at once that it was William Powell,a giant star who made dozens of movies in the 30s and 40s.

She ran her fingers over the faces as though she was polishing them. Powell was very young in the picture and holding a baby.

“It was at the christening of Bill’s son,” she said.

She wouldn’t take money for the picture, just handed it to me. “He was in love with Jean you know,” she whispered, as though the ghost of some gossip columnist was there.

“Jean Harlow, you knew that,” she said. “She died so young.”

Some months later, on the way to an interview at Paramount Studios, I drove by the house. It was empty and for sale.

The story of Harlow and Powell is an old one in Hollywood, where ghost stories are as ubiquitous as orange trees, most who knew them are long gone.

Not the photo. I have it still.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.

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