We have clutter. So much clutter. So much that can be
rearranged, donated, thrown away -- and I don’t know where to begin.
So one day a few years ago, I did begin. I noticed it was big trash day. You
know, the day you can throw away nearly anything! I love big trash day like a
dog loves to bury his old bone! Those old crusty lawn chairs, and pillows that have lost
their fluff, boxes, and vacuums that no longer suck – all for the heap. It’s
exciting I tell you! So I set off to the garage with a hitch in my step, to
collect the old, the unwanted, the unused, and the broken.
When I was done in the garage there was a nice tidy pile by
our regular trash cans, but I thought, nah, there’s got to be more! So off to
the side yard I flounced with a determined grin. There had to be more trash and
clutter and waste. And there was, oh yes, there was.
Bikes. Rusted bikes. There were 5 in total, 4 of them
varying ages of children’s bicycles, left to rot in the rain and the dew and
the fog that rolls in. So I wheeled them around to the front yard and dumped
them on the growing pile of clutter I collected.
Then I went back for the brown
one, the big daddy bike, leaned up against the fence, its wheels rusted, parts
falling off. The chain hanging slack, it had once been a beautiful brown, back
in the day. Now it was faded and clearly a topper for the heap. The wheels
couldn’t turn so I trudged, pulling and pushing the poor brown bike to the
pile, as if he didn’t want to go. I went back and found broken toys, a few
abandoned boxes and even a gardening pot with a broken bottom, dirt spilling
out.
I was quite proud of my pile as I washed my hands and set
the table for dinner. Then I heard the front door open and a holler could be
heard. “Who threw my bike away???” It wasn’t a child or a teen that shouted
this affront, no, it was none other than the Sir of the house. The man. The
husband. Oh boy.
His bike, the big brown one, you see, brought back fond memories of its days of
glory and he was offended by my pile.
He regaled stories of himself riding tall on its brown,
beautiful gleaming seat, clutching the handle bars as he executed first a left
and then a right turn, using proper hand signals, of course. (He’s a Boy Scout
through and through.)
“But dear,” I pleaded, “It is time. Your bike is old and
rusted and needs to be replaced. I found it welded to the pavement with so much
rust I had to hammer at it with my foot.”
He gasped and disappeared to sulk. That night the pickers
and gleamers of goodies from the piles of trash trolled the neighborhood and
David watched with exasperation as our pile of clutter was reduced to a much smaller pile with the bikes still on top. Ah, so they really were worthless and gone beyond repair, I
thought.
David watched off and on as he heard the rustling, like
little rats, picking the pile of trash down
to just the basics. The bikes,
carefully set aside, the brown one set back on the pile, the smaller ones on
top of each other in a separate pile (the trash pickers were really quite neat). A pickup truck pulled up and, to David’s
horror, the kiddy bikes were scooped up and carted off, but the old brown bike,
with its hanging entrails of rust, was left in the heap with the cardboard and
an old computer monitor.
The next morning, most of the trash had been picked up. No
one wanted the broken flower pot or the crusty cardboard boxes and, lying
dejected and sad, was David’s old brown bike. “I remember riding that bike to
school,” he sighed. That was when I felt just a tiny bit sad, until I
remembered it had sat out in the elements for years. Obviously someone had
forgotten the bikes and lost interest in riding here and there on the bike
trails and around the streets.
“ Let’s go buy you a new bike!” I declared! He just shook
his head, “I don’t know if I’m ready for a new one or not.” (Not to mention being busier than a one armed wall paper hanger.)
“Plus,” I said, with a flourish, “right there where the rust
is still showing in the pavement is where the bicycle shed will stand once we’ve
picked out our new wheels.”
I think, maybe, David rolled his eyes.
Author’s note: To date, no bike
has been purchased, no mention has been made of any of the bikes and no shed
has appeared. I suspect, just like the go-peds and skates and skate boards,
those days are gone. David finally agreed his bike was beyond repair and he is
actually helping in the scaling down of clutter. Yeah!
