When I saw the truck parked at the end of my neighbor’s driveway and watched the man load a metal bed frame, I felt I let one get away, missed a layup, botched the $100 answer on Jeopardy!
That’s when I knew my spouse of almost 42 years was right – a difficult admission for a card-carrying Neanderthal. She had turned to me in the last month and proclaimed: “You’re a scrapper.’’
“No way,’’ I cringed. It’s term I disdain, but there was a ring of truth to her label. I’ve become a regular at the metal recycling yard near our home.
This started after we became co-directors of our church rummage sale. We accept donations from parishioners, friends and neighbors. This is no small operation. When the church sacristan passed, she donated the contents of her home. It took three visits with a van and my pickup truck to collect everything. With that done, I hauled rusting, metal cabinets and shelving from her basement to the scrap yard. For every 11 pounds I jettisoned, I earned a dollar for the rummage sale.
No small operation? The donations filled an entire gym, stage, balcony, four garage bays and a storage container. Our sacristan’s pristine, hardwood bedroom suite fetched $3,200 at the high-end consignment shop. Our cut was $2,300. The sale is as much a recycling mission as a fundraiser and netted $102,000, lifeblood for an aging urban parish.
We needed to create storage space before the sale, so the parish staff identified a dusty space near the school boiler room. We emptied metal signs, old basketball hoops, folding chairs and broken tables and racks. My truck carried one load that weighed 800 pounds. Fred Sanford would have been jealous.
Now that I’m a scrapper, I know the routine at the yard. The attendant examines your load, you drive over the scale to weigh it, unload onto the pile, drive back over the scale, then head for the cashier to collect your cash. My scrap runs netted more than $200, which I took straight to the parish secretary.
I don’t have a business name like 1-800-GOT-HOLLERAN? but we have become vigilant recyclers. When things are left at the curb, we’ll pounce for things that could be sold at the sale. Two Adirondack chairs needed tightening and a fresh coat of paint. We’re always stopping to pick up end tables and chairs. Treadmills don’t sell well, but they find a home at the scrapyard. The only thing that was spared was my neighbors’ basketball hoop in great condition. I trucked it 40 miles to Geneva and installed it in a boy’s driveway, a good behavior gift from his principal, my former student teacher.
When Eileen Holleran was immersed in her 47-year career as a labor and delivery nurse at then-A. Barton Hepburn Hospital, she lived by the mantra “use it up, wear it out.’’ Her purse always carried an extra bandage or the end of a roll of tape.
Upon her passing in 1998, we used a small portion of the inheritance to install an 18-foot, circular pool for Katie, Liam and Claire in our backyard. Within 10 years, they had outgrown it. Grandma Eileen’s words still were ringing in my head when I offered it free, first-come first-served, on Craigslist. One fellow called just ahead of the guy with two small children. I explained these pools were easy to disassemble and reinstall in another backyard.
“I can pick it up Monday,’’ he promised.
“I’ll be at school all day,’’ I said, “but I’m glad it’s going to a family.’’
When I arrived home Monday evening and walked to the backyard, the guy turned out to be a scrapper. He took the metal panels and filter pump but left plastic parts strewn across the lawn. Scrapper was akin to a four-letter word in our home.
I was still seething that evening when the father of two, hoping for a minor miracle, called to ask if the other fellow had collected the pool. I was too embarrassed to admit I had been scammed by a scrapper. Not surprisingly, the scrapper ignored two angry phone messages.
Now the term scrapper has come full circle. I’m heading back to the scrapyard with some leftover metal hangers from the sale, a rusty fire pit, plus the aluminum skeleton of our canvas deck gazebo, mangled and torn in a windstorm. They are only worth a few bucks but it’s better than tossing them in the trash. I’ve turned a negative into a positive for my church, which operates a supper program for the needy and supports a ministry to help the homeless.
Remember your 1960s TV? “Paladin” rode a horse; I drive a Toyota Tacoma. “Have Pickup – Will Travel.’’
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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