OFFICIAL WEBSITE OF GREENESPEAK PUBLICATIONS CINDY BAILEY, EDITOR & PUBLISHER Headquartered at: 99 S. Washington St., Waynesburg, PA Greene County MAILING ADDRESS: P. O. Box 1003 Waynesburg, PA 15370 BUSINESS PH: 724-344-7980 E-MAIL: cindy@greenespeak.com ******************************************** POSTED JULY 2, 2009 Reprinted from the June 2009 GreeneSpeak ******************************************** SECRET'S OUT I have a dirty little secret. No, I mean it. It’s hard to say out loud, but it’s something I’ve been carrying around with me–literally in bags and boxes–ever since I can remember. It occurred to me after rummaging (of course) around in a brown bag under the table at the library book sale. I think it must have been fate that caused me to fish out a slim and dusty paperback with my name all over it (and no, I didn’t write it, but I could have!), The Rummager’s Handbook. It brought tears to my eyes and an involuntary sigh of relief. There is a name for people like me and now, our very own a handbook! Through the years I’ve tried to deny who I really am, cleaning out junk like other people each spring, spending long days organizing my piles of stuff, fretting about my inability to create domestic order, even generously donating large bags of my treasures to thrift stores in order to help the community, knowing my stuff will help other people like me feed their addiction. But who can leave a thrift store without checking out the latest Land of Unwanted Stuff? If you can, alas, you are not one of us! Who can drive by a flea market sign? Just think of the possibilities tucked away in each and every flea! Church rummage sales? Anything to help God out! Okay, so I’m outed. Spring and summer are the worst; when other people are cleaning out, I’m gathering–all their unwanted stuff. They make T.V. shows about people like me and I watch them religiously, hoping to learn something about getting it under control, but mostly I drool over the items they’re putting in their yard sales. And for me, rummaging really is dirty work, because I leave no box or bag unopened. I’ll practically stand on my head for as long as it takes, pawing through every item to see what I can add to my personal arsenal of raw materials from which to create amazing wonders. This is what inspires me: finding old things and using them in new (okay, maybe bizarre) ways. Because the dustiest, rustiest items hidden in boxes (because the owners didn’t think they were worth putting on display) are the biggest diamonds in the rough. The true rummager really never sees the dirt; that’s how we can live in clutter and not really see it as a “mess” until our husbands somehow injure themselves on our hoard. Dusty bags of books notwithstanding, I think the dirtiest thing I bought in recent memory was a pile of old newspaper printer drawers not only covered with ink, but which must have been sitting next to a coal furnace for the last 50 years. These are the ones with all the little compartments that people use as shadow boxes. The guy sold the grimy lot to me for $20. To date, I have cleaned only two of them, using straight ammonia and a toothbrush. I filled one with photos and wedding mementos for a couple who recently married. The bride loved it, but I was jealous and wanted to keep it for myself. Although the Rummager’s Handbook recommends establishing your own personal closet of these items so you have them at hand for quick crafting, I outgrew mine long ago. Somehow, the true treasure of my life, my husband, puts up with my hoarding, even seems to understand it. We just returned from our anniversary weekend. The bags and boxes I walked in with were not filled with expensive perfume or jewelry, but scraps of vintage fabrics, old magazines and cookbooks from 40 years ago, and an old aluminum roaster (makes a great herb garden). I don’t know why, but old things, things that had a former life appeal to me...a sewing box still filled with notions...an avocado green makeup case the white-haired lady said she bought for her honeymoon...a chipped enamel teapot, white with red trim, something my grandmother would have been proud to have in her kitchen...even an old church pew from a church I attended sometimes as a child...things that remind me of home, of who I am and where I came from. Imperfect, but salvageable things that still have a use and a certain alluring patina. Likewise, I may not be the fresh young girl I was when I walked down the aisle 29 years ago, but, yes, I am definitely noticing a patina lately.... ************************ POSTED MAY 10, 2008 ************************* [Selected from the May 2008 print edition of GreeneSpeak] Going in many directions out on the ridge By Cindy Bailey GreeneSpeak Editor & Publisher So anyway, we pulled in the driveway and the greeting committee that showed up was 1,000 pounds of horse flesh who had been gorging on the never-ending-salad-bar-that-is-my-yard. “How’d she get out again?” I asked. Now, it doesn’t happen very often, but every once in awhile, Belle, Annie’s equine wonder, manages to outwit us all and find a new technique for squashing herself through our overpriced fencing and find freedom. One time, I awoke to an early morning knock at the door which was Belle who apparently sniffed the oats Daddy was preparing for the girls’ breakfast. Annie just led her back to the barn and that was the end of that. We figured she had slipped on the ice and slid under the fence that time. This episode, however, was more complicated. In my haste to heed nature’s call , I skipped to the front door to let myself in the basement door–where Belle obviously smelled her feed supply and came tearing across the painted cement. “Oh man! Keep her off the por–” my husband croaked, but I thought it was sort of cute that she was following me and wondered what the fuss was about. Poor Belle. Her hooves just couldn’t get any traction. One by one they slipped out from under her and she went down, looking as startled as I did I’m sure. Now if you have never had a half-ton animal crash at your feet, you may not understand what a traumatizing sight it is. Although we soon knew she was unhurt, at first you figure the worst. As she sort of groaned and wallowed around and Rob came over to try to get her up, I flew inside to do you know what. The excitement was too much. When I came back out they were both out of breath, wide-eyed, and in huge states of puzzlement.. Seems she had gone down a couple of more times as he tried to help her, but now he was cooing, “Whoa, Belle...whoa Belle...” (And I’m thinking, geeze, she’s already “whoaed” what we need here is a giddyUP). She was facing the block wall of the house, with her back to the world, sort of like she was embarrassed.... “Maybe I AM allowing my appetite to control my life....” However, my husband, due to his more than three decades of associations with me and another 20 years with his daughters, has managed to hone his skills among the females, and to my amazement, that horse just lay there with her starry big eyes locked on him, just waiting because she knew he would take care of her and get it figured out. I was not quite so convinced yet. So I was ordered to do the “Whoa, Belle” thing as he searched for some implement to address this situation. Now it doesn’t really work as well when your voice is more like a primal scream, but I did try.... You may already know my husband has a knack for turning anything into a useful and practical tool which is the exact item you need for your problem at this exact moment.. It’s a bizarre talent, really, but I’ll admit, I’ve taken advantage of it on numerous occasions. So he grabs a strap of some sort and wraps it around her upper ribcage and I’m thinking more like a crowbar or board to pry her up. So he pulls and she budges a few inches toward the yard behind her and he repeats this about four times. And she jerks up her head and sees the grass again and starts to get up and I shriek and Rob looks at me with eyes that are paring knives and I pipe down. And she gets up on all four feet on the same slippery cement and struts off to the free buffet once again. I think I heard her hiss, “So, why didn’t YOU think of that?” And my adorable husband put her safely away and is still puzzling over her Houdini-esque tendencies. And all I wanted to know was, “Okay, Rob, so how’d you do that?” And he said, “I just needed to get her pointed in the right direction. When she was facing the wall she was trying to get up AND turn around at the same time and that’s why she kept falling down. Once she saw the grass, she knew where she was headed.” And you know where this is going. The moral is: When you hit a brick wall, maybe all you really need to do is trust the Big Guy with all the tools to get you turned around in the right direction. ##