Give Your Stuff Away Day

And the joys of a bad neighborhood in a bad economy

Saturday May 14 is Give Your Stuff Away Day — or at least one earnest man hopes it will be. That’s the day he urges you to haul your excess stuff (or at least a politically correct and safety-checked assortment of it) to the curb and simply give it away to anybody who wants it.

It’s not the political correctness that’ll keep me from participating. It’s the fact that I spring-cleaned my garage today, shoved the best of the gleanings to the front, put up “FREE STUFF” signs — and was cleared out within two hours.

This young man, who has no car, made several trips like this:

Not only did neighbors take all the freebies, but scrap collectors turned up and hauled away a full pickup load of metal I’d been saving for a dealer and the hefty young bike rider is returning this evening to take home a load of rotted and broken wood I’d have otherwise had to put in a landfill.

I’d been planning to Freecycle several chairs and a table, anyhow. But thinking about Give Your Stuff Away Day as I cleaned, I realized just putting it out there would be easier.

—–

Since moving in last summer, I’ve done several rounds of hauling — well over two tons of junk gone to the landfull already, and still more to go. (I made a deal with the sellers that if they’d leave me some useful items, I’d get rid of their un-useful ones. But OMG, I had no idea! These people saved everything, from shoes without mates to broken plastic toys to cheery little “Welcome” plaques whose letters and designs long ago fell off.)

Now that spring has finally arrived, the teardown-and-haulaway is accelerating. Which means that, even though I make a landfill run (or have a helpful kid do it) every two weeks, I’ve always got a pile of scrap wood, broken furniture, air filters from semi-trucks, busted window blinds, and other unsightly stuff heaped outside my gate.

And what do my neighbors do — even before today and the “FREE STUFF” signs? They come knocking on my door to ask if they can take a share of it. Passing neighbors had already relieved me of an old aluminum-frame window with a broken air seal, a wooden windmill that might have been cute 10 years ago, a metal windmill that was never cute, several culverts, and a truckload of wood.

I love this neighborhood.

The whole time I was cleaning the garage and tossing junk outside, I kept thinking of “nicer” neighborhoods I’ve lived in — and how those neighbors would have reacted.

I remember the “best” neighborhood I ever lived in, when I was a twentysomething yuppie. I loved my pretty townhouse, but I hated the homeowner’s association members who circled the development once a month, clipboards in hand, frowns on their faces, and everybody else’s business on their minds. I ran afoul of them for having an “unauthorized” lawn swing (never mind that it was nice; I hadn’t gotten their prior approval). They sent me a nasty letter because a trellis showed 3-1/4 inches above my fenceline (yes, they measured). And they threatened to sue me over an “undesirable” plant in a planter box on my second-floor balcony (no, not cannabis). Instead of waiting to be sued over a plant, I sold the townhouse to a friend and moved out of state.

Those clipboardistas would have called a SWAT team in for rocking chairs and mirrors outside the garage. My new neighbors, mostly immigrants, mostly poor, see opportunity instead. And I can breathe easy while I houseclean.

Now don’t get me wrong. I like living with neatness and beauty. And I don’t like the idea of inflicting trash heaps on my neighbors or having them inflict them on me. But everybody (including the cop who regularly patrols the neighborhood and never thinks of citing me for creating a public nuisance) can see that these heaps of stuff are being built, and torn back down, in the cause of improving the property and making the neighborhood a slightly better place. And that’s the spirit in which everybody takes them. I haven’t received a single complaint or disapproving look. I’ve just gotten more chances to say hi to the neighbors.

—–

Years ago, I thought I wanted to move to a certain rural area in another state. I called a real estate broker there and described what I was looking for — an isolated spot, suitable for an artist’s retreat, great for beauty and privacy.

“I know exactly what you want,” he said. “And I’ve got plenty to show you.”

So I made the eight hour drive, met up with him — and he proceeded to show me places that horrified me. The term “McMansion” hadn’t yet been coined, but that’s what was being built on the 20-acre and five-acre parcels he assured me were “exactly what you want.” Beautiful bits of nature were being turned into expensively rubber-stamped neighborhoods, filled no doubt with rubber-stamped yuppies.

I kept re-explaining what I was really looking for, and he kept taking me to slightly better(meaning less fancy, less developed) areas, but still not at all what I was describing. (I thought he was just obtuse; I learned later he had a financial interest in several of the developments he showed me.)

Finally, in exasperation, he protested, “But you don’t want to live next to people in tar-paper shacks do you???”

I turned to him and said, “Not exactly. But I’d prefer that to what you’re showing me.”

Now, this little neighborhood isn’t exactly tar-paper shack turf. But parts of it you could definitely call “tumbledown” and pretty much all of it comes under the heading of “humble.” It’s got vacant, boarded-up houses whose bank-owners can’t even get $40,000 for them. But would I leave here to return to that “better” neighborhood of the clipboardistas? Would I trade my old beater of a house for a McMansion with neighbors who’d look down their nose at me?

Not a chance. Not one freaking chance.

I love this neighborhood.