scav·en·ger (skvn-jr)
n.
1. One that scavenges, as a person who searches through refuse for food.
2. An animal, such as a bird or insect, that feeds on dead or decaying matter.
3. Chemistry. A substance added to a mixture to remove or inactivate impurities.
Last night, Mona and I went on one of our late-night strolls to the gas station for supplies, and we stumbled upon a trove of veritable treasures for penny-conscious individuals like ourselves. Ten minutes later, soda and cigarettes in hand, we could be witnessed struggling down the street with a table, a bookshelf, five frames complete with art, a pillow, a dish rack, and a stuffed hippopotamus. The cold couldn't stop us, we're die-hard scavengers.
The benefits of what some would call shameless rummaging through other peoples' waste are evident in my room. First, it is one of the few rooms in the building that has wall-to-wall carpeting (one of our first finds). I have a delightful crystal jar full of holiday cookies, plenty of shelves for storing my books, and a comfy chair in the corner for knitting. Mona and I have come to call these our "spoils of war," and a war it is.
I have told her the tales of the "Bloomington salvage." Racing up and down the streets to claim valuable items that no sane person would throw away. Trying to get there before the car behind you and open that box that just might have exactly what you're searching for. Loading as much as you can, and unloading as quickly as you can so you can get back out there.
Computers, furniture, exercise equipment; you name it, someone has tossed it aside. I've even made proxy requests for specific items, and without fail, they are always fulfilled. Also, standards for what is worth taking are drastically lower when everything is free. The only restraint is keeping space in case there is something even better down the way. I once sat on a couch at the street corner for an hour just to claim it while mom went back for a larger vehicle to haul it home.
Fortunately, this disease was inherited from my parents. They are seasoned experts at searching for the best piles and knowing exactly where to look. I don't think anyone could pack as much stuff in one car as dad manages to; he's always joking that there isn't even room for a toothpick.
That raises an important issue of scavengers: where to store the treasures. One person doesn't need seven bicycles or five lawnmowers, but if they're free you save them for parts or "just in case."
Dad told me a few months ago that he had build another building up at the 80 for storage. He explained that he actually got twice as much storage because he also freed up the building that he was using to store the building materials for the new building. So, he builds a building to store building materials to build a new building to store building materials to build a new building. This only makes perfect sense to fellow scavengers. Besides, he needs a place to store those five lawnmowers and seven bicycles.
After being in India, the things that people throw away are even more of a travesty. Mona has threatened that shen she comes to the US for the first time, it will be with the intention of witnessing the Bloomington salvage. We are the few, the proud, the scavengers.
Flown by mariposa at 05:41 PM on January 11, 2006
That umbrella had potential.
Great story--the more so becauses it is true!! Truth is stranger than fiction.
Great story--the more so becauses it is true!! Truth is stranger than fiction.
Okay, I admit, the umbrella did have potential. You know I would have kept it if I didn't already have one. I will just assume at this point that it has gone to a good home.
And I neglected to mention Jeannine's role in the scavenging adventure: swapping war stories is perhaps the most satisfying part of the whole thing, and nobody does that better than her.
Yes, as soon as I hit the post button for the second timeI realized my mistake. My hope was that the computer was too slow to realize what I had done.....alas it was not!!
