LIFE LESSONS
One Man’s Trash...
By Crystal Christmas
Several years ago, when I was expecting my second
child, I got a phone call from my mom urging me to
dig in someone's trash. I could hear the excitement
in her voice as she told me about an old spool – the
kind that is probably used to keep large quantities
of wire orderly – at the edge of a neighbor's yard.
It was obviously placed there for the garbage man’s
weekly rounds. Mom gave a dissertation about how she
always thought those spools would make great outdoor
tables, and she didn’t understand why anyone would
ever want to throw such a thing away. She encouraged
me to go by and take a look at it – which basically
meant that she would be disappointed if I didn't run
right over and claim this treasure before someone
else did. And being a dutiful daughter, I drove my
mid-size SUV over to the designated place, without
even giving it a second thought.
Upon arrival, I began to evaluate how, in my
condition, I was going to get this bulky wooden
‘thing’ into my vehicle without being too
conspicuous, and without hurting myself. After some
consideration and a whole lot of maneuvering and
seat folding, I managed to get the spool into the
back of the SUV. Almost as laborious was getting it
out at home and into a place where my husband
wouldn’t notice it. It found a home on the back
porch for quite some time, until we moved a couple
of years later. That was the first time he said
anything about it, and it might have been the first
time he noticed it. Although I don’t recall what it
was now, I must have had a good excuse to keep it
because this trash-turned-treasure moved with us
twice as we changed residences, and spent a little
time in storage while our house was under
construction, before it finally found its permanent
home on my new front porch.
Once the house was finished, we had lots of
company over for outdoor gatherings, and it was
during these times that some friends and family
glued multi-colored ceramic tiles to the top. On one
of my mom’s later visits, she sealed the tiles with
grout and told me I needed to clean it up and cover
it with a clear coat sealant. (Perhaps I am not as
dutiful as I thought I was, because I never did get
around to doing this.)
It was just recently, when I was making room for
some new furniture, and I moved the raggedy spool
table from one side of the porch to the other, that
I realized I actually felt an attachment to it. I
knew I wasn't feeling this way because it was so
breathtakingly beautiful, or because I just like
having old junk in the way. My attachment stemmed
from the sentiment I felt when I thought about all
the trouble I went through to get it there, and the
memories of friends and family visiting while
putting the little tiles on.
The funny thing about the realization of my
attachment was that, almost in the same moment, I
remembered I had never really liked the table much
up to this point. It had always been a nuisance
because it was too short to be used comfortably, and
only seemed to be a holding spot for miscellaneous
items that would otherwise be put away – if there
weren't a little table sitting there to put them on.
(I can't tell you how many times I have picked up a
stray screwdriver or hammer that was left behind
after an odd job was completed!) It did serve a
purpose as a permanent ‘can holder’ for some time...
a sort of receptacle for every container of mosquito
spray, wasp killer, and soft drink that ever made
its way to the front porch.
Sentiment can be a strange thing, sometimes
creeping up on us when we least expect it and making
our attachments uniquely ours. As a little girl, I
remember going with my aunt and mother to my
grandmother's house after she passed away.
Presumably, we were there to sort through the
treasures and junk and clean up the place for the
next person who would call it home. I spent a lot of
time on the porch looking at all the familiar sights
I knew I wouldn't see again. There was just
something about standing up there and looking out
that couldn't be accomplished from looking from any
other spot. Every now and then I would wander inside
to see what my mother and aunt were doing. I
remember that they had organized things into several
piles, based on where the items were going. A whole
lot of it went out into the trash. I “saved” a
purple, fabric letter “N” from that pile by scooping
it up and asking my mom what it was for. “That was
on your grandmother's letter jacket. She was a
basketball player at Nome High School.”
“Well, why are you throwing that away?” I
inquired.
“Who would want it? It's just collecting dust!”
she said. I remember distinctly wondering what my
grandmother would have thought about mom saying that
about her treasure as I pressed the tattered “N” to
my cheek. I stood there for a moment imagining my
grandmother on the basketball court in her purple
jersey, winning the game, and then slipping into her
letter jacket as she and her team left to celebrate.
‘But she kept this in a drawer all these years,’ I
thought. It had been kept through the birth and
raising of her three children, the death of her
husband, and had moved with her from place to
place...”
I quietly tucked the “N” inside my pocket and
took it home with me that day.
A few weeks ago, I tackled the chore of cleaning
out my daughter's room. In the process, I threw away
some yellow sheets of paper that had words and
drawings on them, thinking they were just things she
had doodled to pass the time. But later that day,
Chloe met me in the kitchen with a scowl on her
face, and yellow paper in hand.
“Mommy,” she said, “these were my special songs
that Shannon wrote for me!”
I replied, “Oh sweetie, I am sorry. I didn't know
they were special. Just straighten them out and put
them away.” I patted her on the head. “But Mommy,”
she objected, “they are all crumpled up. Why did you
throw them away?” I smiled and felt a tear form in
the corner of my eye remembering my experience with
my mom and the purple “N”.
I pondered this for a while as I thought about
what my daughter’s husband might say someday, when I
call her and tell her about a must-have treasure on
the side of the road. And then it dawned on me... My
house isn’t messy – it’s just full of sentiment! And
it is uniquely mine.
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