Even for an unapologetic junk collector, my latest “find” was hard to justify. Why would anybody in their right mind bring home anything so blatantly tacky?
I would… and I did.
It started out innocently enough as most of these acquisitions do. I was heading over to the Town and Country store in Russell Village as is often my custom to check out the movie rentals.
And as is often my custom, my eyes wondered over to the steel bin on the other side of the parking lot where people drop off unwanted articles of clothing for charity.
Often, bags full of miscellaneous stuff are spilling out of the loading door down to the base of the bin; but every now and then, something more interesting is sitting there just begging to be investigated.
As a matter of fact, that’s where I picked up a large, clean, good quality rug which fit the decor in the master bedroom of my North Russell farmhouse perfectly.
I heard the rug had been left by somebody who recognized the quality but simply couldn’t use it anymore.
This time, two strange looking articles accented by the street lights were squatting forlornly in the snow. I wandered over for a closer look: It was a pair of massive plaster table lamps shaped like cactus, complete with the stubby little arms and tiny bumps to simulate the thorns.
If ever a pair of more unattractive lamps had been manufactured, I would be stunned. Cactus lamps! Come on! Were they refuges from Arizona? One still had a bulb, both had the shade holders, but there were no shades to be seen.
I went into the store and came out again, not able to concentrate on movie selections. I tried to walk away, people! I marched determinedly towards Mill Street, telling myself to leave the lamps right where they were. Perhaps another nut case would pick them up.
Then I did an about face and headed back. I paced for a bit, looking over at the lamps, admonishing myself for even considering bringing them back to a home already stuffed with other people’s castoffs.
Over the years, I’ve pulled items out of curbside trash, including an antique pine carpenter’s tool box dating back at least a century. I’ve purchased all kinds of doodads at yard sales and auctions. I pride myself in always bringing something home when I take a trip to the township dump.
I couldn’t stand it any longer. Like a crack addict heading for a fix, I walked quickly – almost ran – to the bin, grabbed hold of the heavy lamps, and scurried back to my car, looking over my shoulder, hoping I hadn’t been spotted succumbing once again to my addiction.
The next day, I confessed to my mother, a master junk collector at whose feet I developed my skills, the woman who filled our house in Aylmer when I was growing up with all manner of stripped, painted, repaired, and glued salvage.
Even mom has her limits. I thought she’d reprimand me sternly for scoring the cactus twins and urge me to bring them back to the bin, or maybe even to smash them into a 100 pieces.
Instead, she applauded me once again for seeing potential where others only saw butt ugly. The lamps, she decreed, would become a great conversation piece, so weird as to be wonderful.
I cleaned them up – they hardly needed it – topped them with some flowery shades I happened to have on hand from a previous junk rescue, and positioned them in the TV room.
I’ve pointed them out proudly to the few people who’ve been by the house in recent days.
If they shared my excitement, they were able to contain it very well.
If the previous owners of those cactus lamps rested so gently beside the recycle bin are reading this, rest assured your castoffs have found a caring new home.
