One Man's Junk...

Remember Gemco? I loved that store.

Tex has always been the thriftiest person I know. He has every cottage cheese carton he's ever used since 1998 stacked up on a side counter in the kitchen and every baggie tie from every produce bag he's brought home from the grocery store, along with the bags. He bought the plaid shirt and brown polyester leisure bell bottom pants he wears on sale at Gemco back in the 80's. The shirt is threadbare but usable so why buy a new one? When a hole breaks through he brings it to me and asks me to patch it. And polyester, as we all know, never wears out. Thousands of years from now when archeologists are digging through the dirt heap that used to be Grampy's trailer park they'll find his polyester pants still intact...and maybe his 12 mayonnaise jars full of root beer barrels.

Grampy's Mailbox

For some reason he is compelled to save every receipt he's ever gotten as well. His kitchen table is covered with organized stacks of receipts, letters, newspaper clippings, and coupons galore. His living room floor is as big as a postage stamp and is stacked with piles of junk mail he receives along with the tchotkes they enclose—plastic indian bead bracelets, greeting cards (that promise 12 novenas are being said in your name), calendars, calorie counter slide guides, bookmarks ad nauseum and Easter/Christmas Seals. The mailman's arrival every day is cause for excitement. One time he got a lap blanket screenprinted with advertising for the Disabled Veterans. That was a good day. He organizes the piles and meticulously keeps track of everything....then he picks out anything with kittens and puppies on them and tries to give them to me. Well I could use the 12 novenas, truth be told but calendars and scratch pads, I'm already up to my eyeballs in. After the January 2011 avalanche of the free calendars he was sorely disappointed I only needed two calendars and sternly told me he'd have to walk up and down in his trailer park and knock on doors, and try to give them away. “Is that a threat old man cause I really don't care what your crazy neighbors think of you.” It is slowly engulfing his living room but the thrifty side to him cannot throw it away. It is his holy mission to waste not, want not and to make sure his junk mail ends up in happy homes.

This is the one I bought, used twice then sold in a yard sale.

Watching him at his task one day, I pondered out loud why on earth he gets so much mail—“I don't know but I wish to hell it would stop” he grumbled. Then it hit me “Dad, do you send them back money in the envelopes they enclose?” “Well yeah ...” he admitted. “not much...and they DO send me all these  gifts.” So I reminded him of what P.T. Barnum said “There's a sucker born every minute”. He said he'd never read THAT book of the Bible and where the hell did I get off calling him a sucker when I'm the one that bought the RonCo Showtime Rotesserie Oven back in 1998.” He had a point there so I took my 2 Scenic America 2011 Calendars, 4 packs of Kute Kittens greeting cards as well as my flourescent, glow in the dark rosary, kissed him on the cheek and left. As I walked outside to my car I could hear him shouting at the TV “Miss Kitty you CAN'T help that idiot Chester out anymore. He's gotta help himself!” Ah Dad....words to live by. Words to live by.

FIRE! Wood

Grampy has many talents. He can build anything with wood, play the spoons and watch 8 episodes of Gunsmoke back to back without falling asleep. But raising three honery, free spirited sons was not something he ever acquired a knack for. You could say he stunk at it and he'd be the first to admit it. In his defense, the only role model he ever had was his own waste of a father who should have had his little head pinched off when he was born...but that's another story.

By 1957 Tex found himself on the parenting end of three rambunctious boys; Ron was 11, Gary was 9 and little Micky was 7. They lived on a chicken ranch out in the Mojave desert with only rattlesnakes and Joshua trees for neighbors, and come summertime there were long, hot days around the ranch with the sublime forecast for those boys of having nothing to do. Grampy vehemently believed that “Idle hands are Satan's tools” and devil be damned, his boys would not be idle. So he had copious chores planned every day in summer to keep those impish hands busy... and those three little guys didn't like it one bit. One odious task stood hands and feet above the rest—that was Moving Wood.

Tex's great passion, was collecting scrap wood. He'd drive by construction sites in his truck after work. In the dark he'd find small pieces (and sometimes long pieces) of 2x4's and 4x6's. He'd help himself, load them in the truck and take them home. He did this for years. He knew where all the new housing tracts and building sites were and what he'd expect to find at the end of a day. “But dad”, I asked when he told me about it, “wasn't that stealing?” He snorted and answered “Naw. They don't need it and they want you to take it.” “Well I don't know if the judge would have seen it that way before he sentenced you to prison” I answered. Once again I was on the receiving end of Grampy's stink eye as he quickly dismissed me, shooing me away like an annoying fly.

The stacked wood might have looked something like this...

By 1957 he had a healthy supply of wood—enough to last him till doomsday. He'd stacked the longer 2x4s in neat little box shaped piles with care and precision, adding more as more was pilfered, er I mean, collected. There was a large hole they'd dug in the ground around back which was meant to be the start of a swimming pool. The pool plan went asunder, so he threw the smaller pieces of scrap wood into it. Over the years the scrap mound grew huge, and filled that hole completely. He got to feeling proudly smug about all his lumber. One morning he was surveying his wooden kingdom when it occurred to him that all that wood would be better placed on the other side of the lot. It was summertime and the boys always needed more chores, he figured, so he commissioned them to move the lumber. “Aw dad, do we hafta?” they implored. “Get your butts out there and move it. Hard work is good for you” he replied with no mercy whatsoever. So out they went and those boys moved and re-stacked that lumber. It took them all week but they did the job. Tex was happy. The lumber DID look and fit better over there. The next day the boys grabbed their bikes and rode off into the desert right after breakfast—out of danger of being bidden for more chores.

Several weeks later Tex was once again perusing his newly stacked lumber piles. By gosh, he'd never realized it before but those piles of wood really were better where they'd started. Why hadn't he seen that before? He woke the boys up at the crack of dawn and once again explained their chore for the week....move the lumber back. They grumbled and complained but to no avail. His mind was set and there was no changing it. So once again Ron, Gary and little Micky moved and re-stacked that wood, moved the scraps back into the aborted swimming pool, and cursed their father with every breath. When finally they finished, they wiped their brows and rode off on their bikes into the desert again to lick their wounds.

The final blow came late summer when Grampy had an epiphany. He realized that the lumber really needed to be farther away from the house. So once again he approached the boys while they were eating their breakfast (and before they could get away). “Me and mama are going into town. I want you boys to get started moving the wood piles out farther next to the back fence. I want to see some progress by the time we get back.” The boys were stunned and speechless. They heard the screen door slam and the car start up and back out the driveway before they could respond. They looked at each other in disbelief. Ron, who was the oldest, the smartest, and therefore the leader, had a plan and quickly took action. He got up from the table and marched defiantly out the back door, yelling over his shoulder “I am NOT moving that lumber again!” Gary and Mike went scrambling after him. “What are you gonna do!” they were yelling after him. He marched right up to that huge hole in the ground full of scrap wood, took a book of matches out of his pocket and by gosh he set that wood on fire.

Into the sunset....

The three of them stood back and watched the lumber burn. It was gorgeous, it was huge and the smoke nearly choked them to death—it was the perfect bonfire. Gary and Mike were in awe of their older brother. His tenacity! His brilliance! Mesmerized by the cleverness of their solution and the burning spectacle before them, they failed to remember that we always reap what we've sewn—that the devil has his due and the piper must be paid. Before too long they all three looked up to see the tell-tale dust cloud of their folks car coming back down the dirt road about a quarter of a mile away. “Crap!” yelled Ron. “RUN!” 

When Tex and Bernie drove up into the driveway they were alarmed by the smoke coming from the back lot. “What the hell?!” Tex was dumbfounded as he exited the car and ran closer to see his wood collection happily burning away. “Is that my....?” Gape-faced, he stared in shock then looked up and across the desert to see three puffs of dust trailing off into the desert— three bicycles with three tiny riders far off in the distance, whopping like Indians and pedaling their bikes just as fast as their little legs could go...away into the sunset. 

He'd deal with them later—and truth be told, he tanned their hides when he finally caught them. But by jingle those boys never moved that lumber again.