TRASHED

Yesterday when I went home to visit Mama Bore, she had a new project for me. It’s Clean-Up Week in her burg, a great time to start unearthing what’s in her garage! Music to my ears. Bring out the garbage bags and let’s get with it!

She had already scoped out a maze of garden hose she wanted me to pitch but after that things got complicated.

“What’s in this bag?” she asked.

“Old sponges,” I said.

“Don’t throw those away. I might need them,” said Mama Bore decisively.

Oooooookay. I won’t question that one. After all, she was game about tossing out the next bag, filled with the always-important plastic lids to butter containers.

"Why in the world was I saving those?" she laughed.

My eyes moved on to an item I was sure would get the ol’ heave-ho…a rusted basketball hoop with tattered net.

“How about this?” I pointed to the metal piece of junk.

“Oh, no,” she answered. “That’s got sentimental value. It was your little brother’s.”

Now, my younger brother was no Michael Jordan growing up. He never played high school hoops, having made his swan song in 8th grade when he came off the bench to commit five fouls in less than two minutes so he could be put out of his misery and sit back down. There was no sentiment lost here. But the basketball museum piece stayed.

I had more success getting rid of a heavy lawn edger contraption.

“Yes, that can go. Your father bought that 53 years ago. He never did get it to work.”

Yep, I’d say it’s time to toss it. A busted pair of hedge shears, a good 30+ years old, was not chosen to join the edger at the dumping grounds, though.

“Somebody might be able to repair it,” she speculated.

Uh-huh. She also thought my big sister’s husband could paint something crafty on an old rolling pin and a rusted saw. And the rotten card table that’s top is peeling…perhaps it could be painted, too. I returned to it several times, but, no, she was adamant on keeping it.

Well, this game went on for about an hour and then Mama Bore was ready to stop for “Jeopardy.” I offered to return later for some more excavating on my own, but she didn’t have that much trust in my ability to separate trash from treasure. And I didn’t argue. After all, a small copper pot she tossed out was rescued and has been transformed into yard art at Casa de la Flaming Bore. I can’t wait to go back to that garage to see what else I need.