Samain Moving Moon
The scut work. The last stuff to throw out. A bagster is set up in our third garage bay, getting filled with overflow from the shop: old hacksaws, rusted screws, chargers to tools no longer owned, chunks of shelving for units long ago discarded.
Into it also went those old squirrel proof bird feeders. These last had a bar that the weight of the bird landing would not depress, so the bird could feed. A squirrel’s weight on it depressed the bar, closing the feeder. That was the theory. The squirrels would balance on the main part of the bird feeder, stretch out a paw and. Food!
A few red boxes for half-priced books, some stuff for Goodwill, old posters, dishes, a cross given to me by a Presbyterian church after I preached, old fraternity paddles from Kate’s college days. Somebody can pretend they were in Beta Theta Pi.
Decisions now are summary. Yes, that goes in trash. No, we’re going to put that in the trash, too. Trash wins all ties.
There is no joy in these acts; though, as Kate said, once we get the place feeling less cluttered, we’ll feel better. She’s right. It looks right now as if we are living the life of highly organized hoarders. Rows of boxes. Stuff put out for donation or recycling or trash.