Burning Memories

Fall is here. Cool air. Every where goldenrods giving everybody allergies. It’s time for fall cleanup! Throwing away other people’s stuff is easy, but getting rid of your own junk?! That’s a completely different story!

            Helping Gramma eighty-six her stuff was hopeless. Within minutes of digging into her lifetime accumulation,  I realized that not one memento, faded picture, old brown paper bag, or 1938 style dress was going to be placed in a trash pile, thrown away, or given to Goodwill. .

            “You can never tell when you may need these things. It’s wasteful to give them away to people who won’t appreciate them.” Gramma stood firm by her convictions. Nothing left the house as long as she could breathe.

            Periodically, my husband, Carl, emptied our country barn where we’d stashed things away for 20 years.

            “That’s my old rocker!” I grabbed the arms and we tugged the rocker back and forth between us.

            “It has no rockers, can’t you see that?”

            “You promised you’d fix it.”

            “That was 14 years ago. I reckon I’m not going to get around to it.”

            The bonfire got bigger and bigger. “Get those wrought-iron chair frames out of there. I’m making new canvas covers for them.”

            “Yeah and burn myself to death.”

            I headed to the shed behind the garage where Carl shoved everything he owned: 20 years of paint cans, faded colors dripping down the sides; pieces of boards; broken down lawnmowers. I was pulling out and piling up when he appeared.

            “What are you doing with my stuff?”

            “Putting it on your bonfire.”

            “No way! Do you realize those door locks cost $18 each?”

            “Who would’ve known? They’re in pieces.”

            “And that box of roofing nails. Don’t throw those away.”

            “They’re all rusted.”

            “They just look rusty, but they’re good and get that axe out of there. It cost $12.”

            “It has no handle.”

            “I’ll get a handle for it.”

            “You haven’t gotten a handle for it in the last 10 years.”

            “Put it back. These are my things. You can’t pitch them!”

            “You threw my stuff away.”

            “That was junk.”

            “And this isn’t?”

            So once again, we crammed our useless possessions into new cubbyholes.

            Hope you guys have better luck.

Lots of junk!

Burning memories!