Jimmy the Recycler

My 87-year-old father is a yard sale addict. He drives around collecting stuff, then distributes it to family and friends.  And, when my father believes you need something, he never takes “no” for an answer.

Occasionally, he’ll discover a treasure, like the gilded black Boston rocker in my family room, the perfect place to comfort a wailing child.  Another time, he brought me a glorious gift, a stack of sheet music from the 1920’s.  I learned to play “Ain’t Got A Barrel of Money” on my vintage ukulele, also a yard sale find.

But, often as not, my father’s acquisitions fall into the dangerous or bizarre categories. Items he brought to my young boys included:  a giant stainless steel meat cleaver, a scythe, and at least two rusty machetes.

When my son, Ian, turned sixteen, Dad presented him with a police scanner and a police light, the kind you fasten on the top of the car. My husband and I assumed both items were illegal and made them disappear fast.

And, in the bizarre category?  Well, how about a large cowboy canteen, not covered in tanned leather, as you might expect, but instead covered with hairy, smelly cowhide. You couldn’t drink from it without having your stomach turn a wee bit.

Recently, when Ian graduated from high school, Dad arrived with a massive cow skull mounted on a wooden plaque. That hunk of bone looked like the cranium of Triceratops.  Across its expansive forehead, my father had inscribed “IAN PRUM” in large black letters.  I held my breath, waiting to see my son’s response.  Delight beamed from Ian’s face.  Turns out, he is indeed his grandfather’s grandchild; that is to say, lots of genetic material made the trip from Grandpa Jimmy to Grandson Ian.

My father’s altruism is not always practical.  Years ago, my Great Aunt Angie (who lived near us in Connecticut) decided she didn’t need her kitchen sink.  I don’t remember why.  My grandparents in St. Petersburg, Florida needed a sink—maybe for their garage, I don’t know. So, one hot July day, my dad strapped Great Aunt Angie’s sink on top of our already stuffed sedan. Off we headed down the East coast to Florida, looking very much like a scrap metal yard on wheels.

Any reasonable person would have calculated how much more expensive gas would be due to extra added weight and wind resistance.  That reasonable person might also have factored in the risk of a costly lawsuit if we wound up crushing other motorists with an airborne sink.

Most certainly, we could have bought THREE sinks in Florida for the cost of hauling the huge hunk of steel. But that fact did not deter my father. He is the original Reuse/Recycle Guy—arguably, a man well ahead of his time.

And, the sad truth is that as much as I try to talk him out of scavenging yard sales, and roadside remains, I always feel a tiny thrill when he pulls up to our house in his dented blue van. Maybe he’ll present me with that1924 Gibson mandolin, I’ve yearned for all my life, then again, he might just be handing me a pink Three-in-One: Hair Dryer, Electric Toothbrush and Avocado Slicer, for which I’ve never yearned.

Regardless Dad, thank you.  It’s the thought that counts.