The AvGeek Rummage Sale

Atlanta is damn near to heaven for pilots. We’ve got Aircraft Spruce south of town so you can spend three or four hours driving in traffic to save three or four dollars on shipping a tiny part you really could have waited a day or two to have delivered. Getting to visit the Spruce store in-person brings a whole new dimension to aircraft ownership and the pilot lifestyle, though: Impulse purchases are a little more costly there than in the grocery store. A pack of mints thrown into the grocery cart? Amy would hardly notice. A handheld radio or Portable Locating Beacon thrown in with a quart of Aeroshell? Yep. My soulmate and forensic accountant is gonna have something to say about that one.

Atlanta is also home to a behemoth of an airline and hosts pilot domiciles for a few others. While that means the big airport in town is intimidating to many, it also brings some perks with it.

Every second Friday at the headquarters for Delta Air Lines, their museum hosts a surplus sale. Beyond a Facebook post or two and a quiet corner on the museum’s website, there’s not a lot of publicity. But at 9 a.m. on those certain Fridays, the line out the door stretches into the parking lot. Granted, a significant portion of the line is occupied by employees who surely aren’t neglecting their duties, but the outsiders who show up continue to amaze me.

I’ve met a husband and wife who were hoping to outfit their daughter’s bedroom with airliner seats and galley items. They impulsively bought more than their car could contain. As luck would have it, they lived just a few miles from the house. I threw a galley cart in the bed of my truck and followed them home. Free delivery service with a smile—and later on, I did a career day assignment with their daughter. You just don’t get that kind of thing at any old rummage sale.

A dad and son from Madison had made the trek last year and were itching for posters, pictures, and old timetables. We chatted while in line. “That’s quite a drive, from over east of town to here,” I said. No, they were from the other Madison. They’d flown down, on Delta, just to see the sale.

I don’t know how they source all this stuff. I assume retired employee estates often bequeath collections back to the company. Some of the items are former museum displays that I recognize handily, and some things like training aids, artwork, furniture and galley equipment obviously saw years of service before getting a price tag pinned to it.

Turbine blades are a nearly perpetual staple of the sale, with torched holes to ensure they don’t end up on someone’s homebuilt MD-88, and galley carts draw crowds of frenzied buyers. Maybe there’s a flight attendant fetish? I’ve certainly seen several outfitted as bar carts to roll out by the pool at a few pilots’ houses. I even came across one, rolled into the box seats at the final Reno Air Races, filled to capacity with whiskey and vodka. That crowd had a strict bring-your-own-mixers rule—as they hadn’t included space for such frivolities in their planning. My own galley cart is organized with shelves of hardware for the Mooney and lives at the hangar. It’s arguably the only part of my wrench-turning life that IS organized.

Two hours ahead of the sale, the gates open. Judy Bean and her team of volunteers are already out front, with their cup of coffee and a stack of cards. The first 54 to show up get a card (obviously, jokers are included) with a number sharpie’d onto it. The playing cards themselves are collectibles; mine this month was the eight of spades from a North American Airlines playing deck. Those of us armed with a card from the deck are relieved from line-standing duty for the next 90 minutes. The number written on that card is our placeholder for the line. I’ve written columns back at the car or left the campus for breakfast.

By the time doors open at 9, the line is stacked deep. That number-eight card got me almost to the front of the line, and with prime pickings, it was hard to hold back. A branded backpack? Don’t mind if I do. Chad, my Substack’s copy editor, has never asked for a penny, but he did ask for a turbine blade. Done. Got him a few shirts and a challenge coin as well. Mom and my aunt are both big Boeing 747 fans, and baggage tags made from a retired 747’s skin seemed a perfect stocking stuffer.

Christmas shopping in August? I can still remember being in the mall on Dec. 24. I’d say it feels like it was yesterday, but it was before joint pain became a thing, so I know it’s been a minute.

I did manage to pass by the DC-3 flight controls, priced at $1,200 each, and rows of seats from the boarding area. I’ve spent plenty of my life planted in those seats; $300 a row sounds a bit steep for a miserable seating experience at home. But a Swiss Army watch for $10? Yup. Please and thank you.

The unpredictability keeps me and a lot of others coming back month after month. Sometimes I slip out with nothing more than a ballpoint pen, other months I’d already composed a domestic apology before starting back to the car. I figure more than a small fraction of items purchased are listed on eBay before sunset, but for the folks like me, who live, eat, sleep, and breathe all things aviation, these treasures will probably stick around a while. Until they’re bequeathed back to the museum, and the cycle starts all over again.