I’m certain we can find a 14-point addiction program or a support group for my editor of 41 years. We can’t drive down a busy street or suburban road without Mary imagining some treasure nestled within the junk people have left at the curb.
The minivan stops, the treasure goes in, the garage overflows.
In my twisted mind, I have rewritten Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade’’:
Junk to the right of them
Junk to the left of them
Junk in front of them
I’ll skip the charge of the 600 … a bit melodramatic.
This fine mess started innocently enough when Mary and I found a common interest in antique stores. She was intrigued by garage sales, then added thrift shops. Now that we are grandparents, no stone or curbside pile goes unturned. On various jaunts, she spied a chalkboard, Little Tikes Cozy Coupe and plastic baby swing, all with our grandson Wesley James in mind.
When we deepened our commitment to the parish rummage sale, she picked up deck chairs, plastic golf clubs and bicycles that were sure to fetch a few bucks for our church.
Now that we have assumed leadership of Blessed Sacrament’s Next-To-New Sale, our garage has become a mini-warehouse. We have two Adirondack chairs that need a paint job, a plastic basketball hoop, five patio chairs, more toys and an Ethan Allen solid maple bed frame. Our two-car garage now holds only one — the Gramvan. My truck has been relegated to the elements. As I write this, Mary is taping the seats of two patio chairs in the middle of the living room so she can take them to the garage for spray painting.
I feel like I married the poster child for 1-800-GOT-JUNK?.
“I don’t think I’m addicted,’’ said Mary, who commits wholeheartedly to civic causes — serving dinner at the church supper program, building beds for needy children and serving on nonprofit boards of directors. “Most of the items that I pick up are things that I hate to see go to waste.’’
“Did you see that bin of Matchbox cars that I snagged for Wes? They would have ended up in the trash.’’
She explained the protocol for curbside shopping.
“If it is placed at the curb, it’s usually free unless there is a sign. If you see it, you need to check it out. I stopped at one friend’s house because I saw two sleds, but I left them because they were broken.’’
My sister Anne Marie and brother-in-law John employ a more sophisticated approach. John compiles a list from online sources and pennysavers, and friends alert them to look for certain items. John plots a path around Plattsburgh and they launch each Saturday before 8 a.m. They usually return with an eclectic find or novelty gift.
I’ll concede that Mary has the right mentality to co-manage our church’s rummage sale. We need to encourage parishioners to contribute items. We drive to homes to pick up heavy items and deliver them to our storage space.
As one sarcastic, humorous parishioner pointed out at the last sale: “We donate a lot of our crap, pick through everyone’s crap, then buy more crap. But it’s a wonderful fundraiser for the church!’’
I’m not immune from picking up items from the side of the road. As a penniless, 23-year-old newspaper reporter in suburban Cleveland, my roommate and I drove through the more prosperous suburbs and found a coffee table and sofa. Later, we let Tom move in because we coveted his lawn chair. Suffice to say, the furnishings were sparse.
Forty-five years later, I doubt I’ll be taking a call from American Pickers. I never became a Fred Sanford, the junkman/antique dealer that comedian Redd Foxx portrayed in the 1970s sitcom Sanford and Son. Whenever his grumpy character was embroiled in a controversy, he would fake a heart attack and call to his widow: “Oh, this is the big one! You hear that, Elizabeth? I’m coming to join you.’’
As we drove home from Mass on Sunday, I was puffing up my ego, teasing Mary about searching for roadside treasures, when I was immediately humbled. I spotted a pitchback – a framed net that rebounds whatever ball you throw. Brainflash! I could improve my lame throwing for senior softball. I wouldn’t have to ask the neighbor girl to play catch – my wild throw last time dented our mailbox. So we stopped the car and brought it home.
“Things deserve a second and third life,’’ Mary reflected as we headed home.
Was she talking about the pitchback or me?
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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