Dang, I missed my evening walk through the neighborhood.
Kman usually tricks me into watching some dumb thing on TV, or encourages me to go check my blog 'bout the same time every Tuesday night. Wednesday is trash day in our neighborhood. Means all the good shit gets put out on the curb at dusk. Now, mind you, I don't attack a curbside pile of boxes like a crazed hungry coon looking for browned apple cores or half-eaten cobs of corn. I am selective. From half a block away, I can spy a possible trove almost glowing in the dark with promise. Slowing my walk down to a more leisurely amble, I stop at the edge of a potential cache and pretend to stretch a hamstring, or tie a tennis shoe lace. "Oh my, did I knock that box over?"
I do draw the line at ripping through black Husky bags. If the discarded prize is not in plain view after a slight re-arranging of the pile, then it goes to the dump with the rest of the garbage. Hey, I don't want real trash, just orphaned treasure that needs a good home or a little creative touch.
I guess I must have inherited a double whammy of the recessive Depression-Era gene. I recycle most everything and find joy in old beat up tin watering cans, or a handful of worn wooden clothespins. To add to this affliction, I can't part with any of it. Kman says my dream of "Pattie's Good Shit Store" is better kept a dream...I would never allow anything to be sold and moved away.
Well, all I know is if the Antique Road Show ever comes to Cowtown, I am ready. There is bound to be that $5000 knick-knack somewhere in my stash. Problem would be what to choose to bring for the professional appraisal: my 70's platform shoes that were worn only once on the disco floor at the SpeakEasy with just a slight bloodstain suffered after a terrible four-inch fall; the little stuffed frogs that play a tiny violin, bass fiddle, and a slide trombone; a bourbon decanter with a picture of Elvis on it or the Coca-Cola Super Bowl V Commemorative bottle; a ticket stub from the Cherry Lane Drive-In for a showing of "The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly; or the Avon replica antique car bottles filled with old cologne that could now take paint off a 1945 Model D John Deere tractor left out in the pasture for eons and leave it smelling faintly of Windjammer? Or, how about that magical little bird that dips his beak down into a glass of water over and over in perpetual thirst?
The only thing I ever owned that could have fetched a college fund windfall was a humongous set of Beatles bubble gum trading cards, over 100 of them spanning two years of ripped out fillings and untold allowance squandering. Years ago, my mama threw them away and they were filched from our curbside garbage in the dark of night.
Somewhere today there is a TCU freshman who owes his education to John, Paul, George and Ringo and should thank his lucky stars for a mom who can spot treasure half a block away...