(The famous Dumpster, our ultimate friend. Photo Socotra)

I knew we were o trouble when the Dumpster was filled up by lunchtime. That put us behind on pace and into a frantic series of phone calls to the Little Traverse Dumpster Corporation.

Brenda said: “Residential? I can have a pickup next Wednesday.”

“We won’t be here,” I replied, the hairs going up on the back of my neck. “Can you get something sooner?”

“Well, if you were commercial I might be able to slip you in tomorrow.”

“Trust me- we are industrial,” I said firmly. “There is a Hospital loading dock on the other side of our fence.

She acquiesced, and I kept my fingers crossed that we would have a place for all the crap. It looked like a near thing. The Baynes moving crew was late by a half hour, but burly young Mac inspired confidence as we walked through the house identifying what was to go to Goodwill, what would head for the Dumpster of the transfer station, and what would be wrapped with care to go into storage, which we will throw away in a couple years.

There were thrills and chills throughout the day. Mac said “Do you think Goodwill will take all this?”

“Gently used only, no mattresses,” said the lady at the donation center with a trace of suspicion in her voice. I can only imagine the things people have tried to ‘donate’ to them. Just like me.

The process of liquidating files started slowly and gained speed as whole years went flying into the green maw of the Dumpster in the drive. Income taxes 1955. Cancelled checks- great decks of neat green rectangles, years and years of cancelled checks on banks that have been gobbled up by others. They flew in the air like leaves before the gales- and it was a gale that chilled to the bone.

Spike and I concentrated on the garage as the Baynes destruction crew worked steadily through the living room, dining room and the bedrooms.

I did what I could, considering the leg was starting to shoot stabbing pain up my back. “I am sorry I am worthless,” I said in exasperation. Spike nodded and we went back to the cascade of crap moving from the house to the truck or into the great green metal maw of the Dumpster.

Till it was full, anyway. Mac wrapped up one truck that headed for Goodwill and did not come back, a good sign. The other truck was about to leave for storage when Mac asked which of us would be coming with him.

“Wait,” I said. “I don’t want to put my brother in storage.”

Spike looked over at me. “I am not so sure,” he said with a grin.

The issue was, from Mac’s perspective, was that he thought we had engaged a storage unit. My heart sank. “No, Belinda told me on the phone you guys did the storage. Much consultation on the cell phone and eventually he agreed to take custody of everything that was temporarily too valuable to throw away.

The shadows lengthened as I finally gave up and poured a stiff one and went out on the deck to watch the sun go down. The new owners are going to like this place a lot, I thought.

Wish we could keep everything. Then I looked at the full Dumpster and realized we never really own anything at all.

(Spike with Million Dollar sunset in reflection. Photo Socotra.)

Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra

www.vicsocotra.com