Trash and Treasure

Every spring my father would get that nostalgic look in his eye, often over Sunday dinner. I knew the story that was coming but my father had a rare gift. Even retold a hundred times he had such perfect timing that his audience clung to every word. “When Evelyn and I got married I had a brand new 1936 Packard Touring car. It had shades on the back windows….” He went on for some time about the glorious details of what seemed to me a Dr Seuss contraption, the most amazing car that was ever on the road. The story always ended the same, “… and if I had it today, can you imagine how much it would be worth?” I would sigh and grieve with him over the loss, remarkably like his fishing stories, “…don’t know how I let that one get away.” I calculated in my mind how my life would be different if we still owned it. The world would beat a path to our door to stand and marvel, and we would be rich beyond our wildest dreams. I found a picture of one in mint condition on line this morning. It is for sale for $22,500. Yes, my father did have a way with a story.

I thought of him this morning as I tackled an odious task, the cleaning of the garage. Now as far as I can remember the garage only had a car in it one time, back in the eighties when we moved into the house. I remember backing my green Pontiac station wagon into it to unload boxes. I believe some of those boxes were deposited in my attic and have been there ever since. You all must understand by now that I am in a mixed marriage. The husband and I are as different as night and day. In fact he sleeps days and I sleep nights, a perfect incompatibility and also likely the secret of our long marriage. His theory on a successful life is ending up with the most stuff when it’s over. My theory on success is being about to sort out trash from treasure, and coincidentally getting rid of the trash.

We each have a child like ourselves and one that combines our proclivities in a oddly bipolar way. My daughter and I have an understanding that if we want to throw something away we actually have to take it to Goodwill or the dump ourselves, else it will boomerang back to some secret corner of the closet or garage or even the car trunk to prevent it from being lost forever. I realize how much my middle child is his father’s son as I open the dozen plastic tubs he left here when he moved to Seattle. They are a collection of childhood toys, computer parts, firecrackers, gum wrappers, Chinese fortunes, old Victoria’s Secrets catalogues, excreta infinitum.  There is no way to sort through them for him without invoking his ire at some future date, most likely on a holiday when he comes to visit, but I do consolidate them a bit and come up with one less plastic tub.

His father sleeps this morning, but knowing I am cleaning the garage, I am certain it is a fitful sleep. He has long ago given up on trying to stop me from throwing away his collections of plastic bags and bottles, cardboard boxes, and broken or worn out household appliances and goods. I long ago quit asking him if I could discard things. I let him hang on to the jeans and shoes with holes, but I draw the line at broken keyboards and monitors that are incompatible with any of our computers. I do give him a few places to indulge the chaos that makes him happy, his personal closet, a cabinet or two in said garage, his media room where I can close the door. We do not argue about it any longer. In this area of our life together I am determined and he is resigned.

My oldest, the composite child, is moving into his own home this weekend. He and his wife were snuggled comfortably in a lovely one bedroom apartment but one small baby changed that in short order. When he left for the coast some years ago he and my d-i-l discarded perhaps three quarters of their collected stuff. What he could not bear to discard he put in plastic tubs and I think you may be about to guess where those are stashed. I know he choose well on the things he kept. I am thinking of the delight of his son upon discovering a giant plastic tub filled with brightly colored Lego blocks, another with laser tag guns and helmets, not to mention the Lionel train set with all accessories. What he may not know is that under my bed I have hidden his favorite storybooks from childhood, something I simply could not let slip away. I like to think my father would be pleased.