I would call it an earthy piece.
Not Pulitzer worthy perhaps, but as Crammer used to say with an eyebrow raised, “Oh, it’s something.”
If my mother was alive she’d say, “You’re turning into your father.”
I’d say, “Edith, I’m home from the dump. Where’s my supper?”
And we’d have a good laugh.
louise b. emailed this morning with a comment:
read your little tale re: dump searching with interest. reminds me of my husband.
I’ll stop there for now.
How old is her husband?
Did he ever meet my dad at the dump?
How many of us dump divers are out there?
louise continued:
anyhow give me a call cause we are cleaning out our garage with treasures of 30 years and up and think you and your friend might find some useful things that wouldn't clutter the dump site.
[Courtesy photo link]
Louise left her phone number.
Do I want to be the kind of person who goes to other people’s houses to look at stuff in their garage?
I like going to the dump with Don, picking over the lumber pile, reusing pine and cedar for ‘whatever’, reusing stuff in general until, for example, the elastic in my underwear is just too tired for one more day.
But garage diving is foreign to me.
Should I call?
Would you go to louise’s garage?
Stay tuned. I may have to do a Part 2 on this one... and soon, I suppose.
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