That Ain't Junk

"Look at this storage container!" said Terry, the man nearing forty years old. "How can two people collect so much stuff? But. I guess they had forty-eight years to do it." He shook crumbs from a toaster. "They didn't even pack the stuff clean."

CeCe, his wife, made a face. "I'm not surprised. They didn't believe in cleaning house. Why would they care about a storage container?"

Underneath its overhead door, an eclectic mix of furniture, small household appliances, and glassware with plates prevented entrance.

The precarious stack of breakables shifted at CeCe's touch. "We better start with these… There's more here than would fit in a tiny house. Your grandparents were hoarders."

"Yes, they were," said Terry. "I don't know if there is anything worth saving. We either haul it off or pay another month's rent… It's the weekend. I'll call my cousin. Maybe he's willing to bring his truck."

After making the phone call, their responsibility stared them in the face.

"We could sell it. Or donate it." said the husband.

"Who would want it?" Her gaze passed up, down, and around the contents. "It's broken, old, or out-of-date."

"I know. But. They were my grandparents," said the husband. "I feel like I'm trashing their life if I take it all to the dump."

CeCe stepped over fallen rugs to give him a kiss and a hug. "Why don't we wait for Patch—that's who you called, isn't it? …Did you tell him to bring his trailer?"

Terry's eyes opened wide before quickly pulling out his cell phone. "I better tell him before he leaves."

*****

The roar and rattle of Patch's diesel 2000 Ford 250 truck drowned out the couple's conversation. Country music from the 1980's blared as the door creaked open and a screwdriver fell out. A couple years older, Patch wore unstylish torn jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt.

"What do you think?" said Terry to Patch as they stood at the wall of belongings.

"So, this is grandpa's stuff. What a find!"

"What a find?!" said CeCe. "Don't you mean 'what a pile of junk'?"

"Nooo! This is like going through the refrigerator. You don't know what's good and what ain't until you find what smells."

CeCe rolled her eyes.

Here's something we can throw away, Patch." Terry held a 1970's toaster oven with a broken door and frayed cord. "I don't know why that wasn't thrown away years ago."

"Grandpa and Grandma lived through the Great Depression. They didn't believe in getting rid of anything. I do." Patch threw it on the trailer.

"Rid of nothing, for sure," CeCe muttered under her breath. At the same time, Terry quoted his grandparents. "'Cause it might be needed some day'." He smiled.

Terry picked up a creeper for going under vehicles. Three tears in the padding showed foam, and one wheel swung freely. He headed for the trailer which held items to go to the dump.

Patch was examining a crescent wrench and a pipe wrench as the creeper headed to its destination.  

"You can throw those on the trailer, too," said Terry. "I tried them on those rusty nuts in the bucket over there. They won't hold anything."

Patch looked up. "That ain't junk." He walked to the trailer and grabbed the creeper.

"But—"

"It's got lots of life in it yet. I need a new one." He moved it into his truck and tossed in the wrenches, too.

Terry and CeCe exchanged sideways glances at each other.

"Now where was the bucket of nuts?" asked Patch.

Terry simply pointed. On seeing the bucket of nuts go in the truck's bed, he searched the piles for something to distract his thoughts.

Against another pile, a dry-rotted wooden bat with a split lengthways. Again, it made CeCe wonder why the item was kept. The men grinned at each other.

"Look at this," said Terry. "Our old baseball bat. Do you remember imitating our favorite team and players?"

"Yeah. And I remember cracking the bat with my hit into old man McNaulty's pasture. And how you got jealous and chased me with it. But I ran faster." Both men laughed.

"Let's keep it. To remember the good times," said the husband.

"No, let's not," said CeCe. "It's nothing but a rotting, cracked bat. You have your memories. What more do you need?"

Patch looked at the CeCe, then at his cousin. "I'll keep it for you, Terry."

While the husband looked relieved, the wife rolled her eyes again.

"How about that!" said Patch. I thought all these were hanging in a tree somewhere."

Terry peered into the box. "Fishing lures. That'd be worth keeping, but I don't have a boat. I lived too far away to fish much with Grandpa. If you want them, go ahead and keep them."

Patch looked lovingly at the sorted minnow-shaped, feathered, and shiny lures. "Thank you. I have lots of memories," he said reverently.

CeCe found a box of picture frames and pulled one up to see what it was. "They made pictures from Thomas Kinkade puzzles? Were they that poor?"

Terry said, "No, they just never spent money… Remember? Great Depression?"

"I guess. If they get desperate for entertainment." She put it back before picking another one. "Oh, I like this frame." She lifted an antique carved wood frame out of the box and gasped.

"Something wrong, honey?"

"No. Something's right. This is a picture of Grandpa and Grandma's parents." She handed it to him, and inspected the next frame before lifting it out. "This one is their 25^th anniversary." CeCe pleaded with her eyes and hugged the picture. "We have to keep these. Maybe we better go through all this stuff."

"Of course, we will. We're doing that right now."

Patch gave up asking about each item and continued working. His truck filled faster than the trailer.

CeCe said, "Darling, don't you think paying Patch is right?" Terry nodded.

"How much do you want paid?

"Nah, don't pay me. I ain't had this much fun in a long time."