Family Ties
Published 12:00 am Saturday, February 10, 2001
MARY ANN FITZMORRIS
Trash or treasure?
First, there are the normal people. When any item in their possession (i.e., clothing, furniture, toys, etc.) becomes worn out, broken or otherwise useless, they simply throw it away. They are not encumbered by deep psychological aversions to trash. Garbage cans are used and emptied regularly. These people are easily recognizable by the orderly houses in which they live and the clean cars they drive. Some of us, though, think way too much about landfills and poor people. When I reluctantly accept that an item in my possession has become completely useless, I think, “Can’t this be recycled? Can’t someone wear this? So what if half the pieces of this game are missing; an intelligent poor child can figure this out. And they can fill in the pieces of the story missing from the torn pages, right?” For folks like me a garbage can is a last resort. We are also easily recognizable by the houses we live in and the cars we drive. They are a mess. The first group of people do not understand the second group of people, and neither of us understands the third group. This bunch actually seeks out used, worn or otherwise useless things discarded by others. They even pay for such things so that they can collect them. The latter two groups of people meet regularly, not at therapy sessions, as they should, but at garage sales. Organizations in perennial need of funds recognize the compulsion some people have to exchange garbage. For this they provide an annual garage sale. Our school offers this psychological service, and I look forward to it every year. But last weekend it was particularly timely, as we have just taken an attic full of junk and turned it into living space. I needed a truck. It took my sister a few days to convince her husband it was worthwhile to spend a Saturday imitating Fred Sanford, the character from the popular 70s sitcom. My sister immediately understood the merit of this noble endeavor, since she is afflicted with the same malady. Her husband, though, is one of the normal people, hovering with disdain over her valiant attempts to find a home for unwanted things like a Bally’s key chain. He, like my own spouse, relishes his role as naysayer, as my sister and I sort garbage in a way to make Goodwill and Greenpeace proud. “What in the world would make you think anyone would want that?” he sneers at my benevolent sister. My husband often exclaims that poor people would laugh at what I had just folded to give them. Such ridicule has made me extremely self-conscious of my green projects. Not this year, though. After years of donating bags of fabric scraps and old socks (for craft projects, don’t you see?) I was proud of my truckload of quality merchandise. My brother-in-law was not proud at all. He unloaded the rolls of new and unused carpet, the virtually unused bunk bed, and the ceiling fan that actually worked – all the while muttering something about the consequences of marrying out of one’s socio-economic level. This son of a *!*!* doctor was practically swept out of the way as delighted shoppers swooped down on the newly arrived sale items. The director of the sale came up to chat, guessing that something was happening at the house. She politely held her comments about the amazing status elevation of this year’s donations. She mentioned her own renovations, lamenting the beautiful molding removed from her entire house that she couldn’t throw away. My sister was interested in that. But she never would have gotten it into the truck. My brother-in-law doesn’t understand that at such events you bring things, and leave with things. One woman was proud that she had donated six bags of merchandise and purchased only one. I only had to buy two possibly working phones. It’s a good thing I wasn’t a volunteer mom. The woman running it told me she spent $200 last year. That was easy to believe when her son beat my daughter to a small trampoline as soon as it arrived. We didn’t stay long. My brother-in-law was frightened away when he saw a small dish of used king cake babies for sale. I retrieved a stack of slightly warped 45s and an old Fisher-Price phonograph from my box. “These are too good for this place. They belong on E-Bay!” I sniffed. My brother-in-law was still shaking his head as he drove out of sight. MARY ANN FITZMORRIS writes this column every Saturday for L’Observateur.