Ask and Ye Shall Receive

My husband has the uncanny ability to proclaim a desire and voila! it appears soon after in a hauling job!  I used to laugh at the coincidence, but I've learned by watching him that it has little to do with coincidence.  There really is something to this "ask and ye shall receive" ...  especially after all the hype from The Secret!  The trick is believing in what you ask for! 

  

Just last week, as he gazed into the back yard he dreamily sighed: “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a bigger composter this summer?  Ours is just too small.”   Okay, I thought … but we already have one. Why would we buy another?   I dismissed the comment but the following day.... a brand new bigger composter showed up on the back of our truck! 

A few weeks ago, same thing... he boldly put it out there:  “Wouldn’t it be cool to have a water softener for the house?”  Really? I mused.  I barely understood what a water softener did--, but soon after, one appeared in mint condition in one of those famous trash outs! 

New storage racks for the garage … got ‘em!

Longer pressure washer hose ... done!

Patio furniture … check!

I'm paying more attention these days because I think he's really on to something.  He might even be like a guru or some sort of manifestation ninja.  

Manifesting....hmmm, let me think. Five bedroom house on three acres in the north county sure would be nice.  "Honey," I call out, "how do you feel about moving?  Can we talk about what I've got on my mind?"

Silver Salad Tongs

I was raised in a family where personal belongings were cherished. They are regarded as treasures and the stories of their beginnings were told with the deepest respect.  My grandmothers' homes are filled with "hand-me-downs" -- tarnished trinkets on dressers, crocheted afghans thrown over aged furniture, collections of teapots, sugar bowls and fine crystal.  Everything has a detailed story connected to it.  I've heard each one several times, as I listened to them being retold by my Mother and Grandmothers.  Here I learned the importance of family history. In the absence of a long passed ancestor, I feel their presence while holding the precious treasure.

As a Hauler's Wife I've collected an arsenal of other people's treasures.  Their stories are lost by the time I come into the picture.  As I gently handle pieces of jewelry, leaf through books with inscriptions, or admire hand knit sweaters I often christen the item with my own rendition of its heritage.  Sometimes I'm lucky to have a faded photo in the mix.  When I do, I match the face to the item and off I go conjuring up my version of what happened and eventually put the item in my treasure box.  My curiosity has become a little ritualistic, or maybe obsessive.  In my opinion all things deserve their last rites...or a new beginning! 

Recently my mind wandered as I held a set of silver salad tongs...to anyone else, it would be just that -- salad servers, for pete's sake.  But this was different.  This particular item was found in an abandoned house -- at least that's what was reported through the pictures.  In the shuffle of "junk" a photo album had been unearthed. Feeling intrusive, but curious, I devoured the pages. The pictures revealed a young couple during their courtship, their fun-filled college days, their eventual marriage and the birth announcement of a child - a baby girl named Elizabeth Claire. Then.. the frequency of the pictures began to dwindle and eventually stopped .  I imagined a couple much like any other that our middle class America manufactures: full of hopes, dreams...and plans of a future together. Life would be grand, they promised one another.  Their smiles were infectious as I flipped through the pages.

But, I had seen the pictures taken the day of the "trash out" and knew there was no happily ever after ending.  The abandoned house was literally trashed -- but the remnants left behind offered clues to a different past.  From the pictures I spied tastefully painted walls with over-sized furniture and home decorations that screamed "HGTV".  This once was a beautiful home. A toddler's yellow and orange minivan was in the background, tipped to one side, door to the car open ... abandoned.  The pictures scanned the back yard to reveal a stainless steel built-in barbeque grill and a volleyball net ripped from the pole; the ball lay off to the side, aged from sun exposure and begging for one last match.  The long grass had grown around hundreds of beer bottles left haphazardly throughout the scene.  The fence, faded with age was leaning toward the street, exhausted from holding the past within.  Here it is, I thought, the average American family gone wrong.   

My mind returned to the salad tongs.  I held them up to examine them more closely.  Stamped with "Wallace Sterling" I imagined engagement parties, giggly girls getting their manicures and pedicures, ribbon bouquets delicately made for the bride-to-be, and the lime sherbet 7-Up punch served in a deep glass party bowl used only for special occasions.  I envisioned the young bride holding the tongs up in the air for all to see and I heard the ohhhs and ahhhs as each relative, cousin, and friend admired the pattern.  In my mind, the proud silver set was passed to each guest to admire more closely.  Along the way, someone made a quip about being the first to be invited over for the couple's first dinner party and how nice the silver would look aside the previously opened mango wood salad bowl.  The bride's Maid of Honor cautioned that friends may have to wait a longgggg time for an invitation because the couple had been "waiting for marriage" to spend the night together! This make believe memory made me smile. 

Snapping back to reality, I gathered up the silver polish and went to work.  I have a remedy for broken dreams.  I may never know what happened to that family.  But, I do have some control over the inanimate objects left behind.  These salad tongs deserve a new beginning.  Once polished they can reign over my family gatherings and one day become a treasure my daughters will speak of to their daughters.

Monday Fun-day

My daughters refer to Monday as “Monday Fun-day.”  It began when they started attending a neighborhood pre-school three mornings each week.  Monday is our "off day" when mornings begin on the lazy side.  We plan an outing together over breakfast: a trip to the zoo, the local mall, or a nearby park … I move their ideas along to activities that I am certain will tire their little bodies out for an afternoon nap -- I'm no dummy!  It thrills the girls to pack their bags with snacks, their favorite stuffed toys, and a book or two.  Sometimes it's just the three of us; other times we invite friends.  

I am always a little leery of which way the day will go as kids will be kids and I do have my "job" tagging along.  I'm kind of proud of my ability to multi-task.  One minute I can be in the middle of the zoo, gawking at an orangutan and the hauling phone will ring.  I step aside politely to answer and as I answer the query on the other end of the line I often spy the "expert" Mom off to side glancing first to me and then sadly to my two orphaned children.  I am that Mom on the phone while her children are seemingly left on their own to come to their own conclusions about why the monkeys pick up their own poop and throw it at each other.  I am that Mom who seems to be waving her children off while enjoying a mindless chat with a girlfriend.  The truth is, I am probably giving directions to a lost driver, trying to play damage control with the client we are late to see or negotiating with a frugal customer.  Most often, I listen patiently as some kindly old lady explains her gardening project and her desire to have a yard or two of compost delivered.  Have you ever noticed how older people just want to visit?...  Don’t get me wrong; I understand this is my “job,” and from my vantage point I believe I do it well -- my girls and my peers wouldn't always agree.  

One Monday Fun-day we met a friend of mine and her three children at a nearby mall.  The mall has a child's play area near the local coffee shop with benches for Moms and others to rest.  Nearby is a carousel that we save for the final treat of the afternoon - the grand finale of the day.  Our children know the routine.  They romped off as we sipped our lattes and caught up on the recent gossip surrounding our lives.  We were relaxed, caught in the moment and laughing at our budding acrobats playing together so nicely.  The business phone rang and I sprung into Hauler's Wife mode.  I turned and walked to a quieter area..my friend, understanding, waved me on--my good friends do that, they understand.  I continued the conversation with my attention still on my little angles. Suddenly my eyes caught the wide-eyed panic of my friend -- she shrieked that her two-year old was missing! 

Without a word my friend and I swooped up the remaining children and began scanning in opposite directions, half walking-half running.  Up and down store fronts, quickly in and out of doorways, eyes peeled for any sign of that little boy.  Horror flooded my mind.  Stop!  Settle down!  Breathe!  We continued our search in desperation, smoothly moving through the waves of people.  Tightly holding on to my daughters' hands, I stretched my neck to look over the crowd.  Where are you little one?  Tears welled in my eyes. I brushed them aside and continued feeling as if I would implode.  The panic I experienced was unlike any other … and he wasn’t even my child -- how must my friend feel? My face flushed with anxiety and fear. I couldn't stop the tears from running down my face.

After what seemed an eternity, we stumbled upon the little boy -- delighted to be in the arms of the carousel conductor and waiting his turn for a carousel ride!  Mom and son reunited, she on her knees in front of him, tearfully hugging and caressing his soft hair.  This time I took her children and waved her off, understanding -- good friends do that, you know.  After a few quiet moments, she joined us.  We were in line waiting our turn for the carousel.  I spoke gently to my girls.  They, too, had become frightened with all the commotion.  All together again, we decided to ride the swan that would fit us all!  I tucked my phone into my pocket and turned my full attention to our happy group.  Hauling calls would have to be answered later.  The driver may have to stop and ask for directions, gardening projects would have to wait ...  I sat back against the swan's wings and looked sideways at my friend who had both her arms around her children and one on her lap.  Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted down.  Knowing her as I do I am certain she was thanking God for her fortune.  I silently joined her as the children's laughter drowned out our throbbing hearts. 

Mother Lodes

A semester's end in a college town becomes a busy time for A Hauler's Wife.  The surprising thing to me is that the students are not calling for help--it's the apartment manager calling to "trash out" a place.  In "my day" (am I really saying this?) we packed our well-used furniture in a friend's pick-up truck and moved it a couple of blocks to a new domicile, set it up, rearranged it for the new look and called it good for another semester.  Now, we rarely see anything dated--Well, I take that back.  I do remember a recent apartment filled with Grandma's maple furniture.  The student remained for our arrival and actually apologized for the 'junk' he was leaving behind.  Vintage furniture, junk? Yea right! This is worth a small fortune.  

Today's college apartment is smartly dressed with IKEA furniture, Old World Market dishes and Pier One Import light fixtures and bedspreads.  To my shock, it's all considered disposable in their eyes!  Pantries filled with canned goods; dead or dying marijuana farms (probably a science project I'm sure), exotic shampoos and conditioners and the inevitable carpet cleaner -- all left behind.  Interestingly we don't come across many beer bongs or "water" pipes, so I surmise that some belongings have that old "sentimental value".

By the time we are called, the trash enclosures are so packed with "disposables" that residents can no longer exit the parking structure.  I can always tell by the pitch of the manager's voice just how hectic the situation is--"Hiyahhh, the fire marshal was just here...can you send your guys today? Students are unable to get their cars from the parking structure!" The word "today" is a plea for "right now"!

End of semester apartment trash-outs have been endearingly named "Mother Lodes."   We've all learned from our 4th grade teachers about the California Gold Rush in which "mother lodes" became a very common man's endeavor--akin to today's Mega-bucks lottery!  Quite frankly, I know the old gold diggers exhilaration...As funny as it sounds, I get goose-bumpy excited when a driver calls and divulges “There’s some really great stuff here. You want me to bring the trailer by before we dump it?” Oh, yes ...  It’s like Christmas!  Generally we park our trailers on a vacant nearby lot, but sometimes, I cannot resist--I must have it delivered!!  Again, I bow ever so humbly toward my patient neighbors.  I am certain they have their opinions (I can feel it), but I continue to convince myself that we are such 'nice people'...perhaps they will overlook the intrusion one more time.  By the time it arrives, it doesn't matter -- I am a kid in a toy shop -- I dive in! 

One such load sticks in my mind.  I arranged for the driver to "trash out" the apartment but when he arrived he called:  "Rebecca, I'm not sure about this one.  It looks like people still live here -- the shower has just been used, I can smell toast from breakfast, there are school books on the kitchen table and the TV is still on...What do you think"?  I panicked--what if he was standing in someone's apartment?  What would happen if the students suddenly returned to find a strange man in their home"?  Had I paid my liability insurance?  Panicked, I called the apartment manager to re-confirm the apartment number; she assured me they were gone. Within a few hours he had backed into my driveway and I devoured the contents! 

The following morning, I called the apartment manager. She laughed at my paranoia, only to tell me that the apartment had been rented by two foreign exchange students.  Headed back to China they had little use for the "mother lode" they left behind.  Phew, I thought … I couldn’t imagine asking our crew to re-set-up the apartment they had just torn apart.  Anyway, by the time I heard that piece of news the dresser had already been sanded and ready for a little antiquing, the dishes were donated to the nearby Salvation Army and the textbooks were in my car to be sold back to the school.  Waste not, want not!

Doctor So and So, President Chit Chat

I am not one for titles.  For me, first names are sufficient.  But every once in awhile I will receive a call from an overly resonant voice announcing himself as "Doctor So and So" or some quick snappy chirp from "President Chit Chat" of the local volunteer organization.  My antenna goes up in an instant and I am in defense-mode.  My response is well-founded as I've learned they believe we common folk won't understand a word coming from their well educated lips.

My title “Hauler” or “Hauler’s Wife” just doesn't have the spin necessary to impress many people.  Believe it or not, many will look down on our kind.  I hear questions like, “Do you understand what I am saying?” or “Does this make any sense to you?” or, “Have you written this down so you don't forget?”  I'm especially amused when someone asks me to have the owner call them back; they have a few questions that I probably won’t be able to answer.....brother!

I listen and answer questions politely and wait for the critical moment, the pause in the conversation, when I casually mention that my husband, the owner, won't be home until after 4 -- that he is an Information Analyst by day and a hauler by night so that I can stay home and raise our two children.  Generally that catches a bit of interest and if it doesn't, I expand the family description and continue telling the doctor or the president that he also enjoys being the president of his business club, makes bio-diesel and occasionally enjoys concocting a batch of IPA.  When he's not working, I continue, he enjoys spending time with his family and loves working in the yard. (okay, so the yard is a bit of a stretch...!)  If I am given the opportunity I proceed to inform them that I, too, graduated from college, received my teaching credential and my Master’s degree, taught high school for 5 years and by my own choosing now stay at home to enjoy these short preschool years and run the hauling business.

I'm a pretty friendly person and I don't believe my comments are offensive.  Some get down right interested and change their tune altogether!  Others could care less.  Honestly, I think I do it more for myself.  It's reassuring to hear my voice recant all our credentials and the lofty plans we have for our family.  I know I will not reeducate anyone who has already made a decision of their important position in life and my subordinate placement.  One thing is for sure A Hauler's Wife I am and I do, after all, get the last say...."How will you be paying ... cash, check, credit card?"

Scrap Metal

Recently we discovered that the trailer loads of "scrap" were very popular with "scrappers".  Unknowingly we were tossing everything only to find that each metal has a value! As the economy dipped deeper we began to receive daily calls “hey, you got metal in your trailer today?”  As entrepreneurs, we saw the immediate value and decided to collect and separate metals for our own extra cash: one bin for copper, one for contaminated (metal mixed with wires or plastic), one for bronze, aluminum, etc.  For about six months our side yard turned into a junk yard. At first it was fun--kind of like composting!  Each day I tossed my recyclables from the kitchen into the proper bin. However, it wasn’t long before the scrap pieces wouldn't fit into a single bin and the piles began to grow.  We had aluminum awnings, engines, air conditioners, pool side lawn furniture. It became impossible to hide behind our backyard fence.  The side yard took on the look of similar landscapes one might find in neighborhoods on the outskirts of town. 

Let me explain something about where I live.  Our house is on a cul-de-sac in a well-trimmed middle class neighborhood.  Our neighbors are our friends.  We meet with our kids in the street and visit as they ride their bikes and learn to roller skate.   We have group yard sales and help each out in emergencies.  We're normal!  They like us and we like them.  We'd like to keep it that way.

But inevitable happened.  We received a letter from our HOA.  Kindly, they informed us that our trash enclosure area was unacceptable.  We had 30 days to improve it.  It was a good time to take the scrap metal in and collect our cash! My husband and I sorted the different metals for an entire afternoon.  I learned there is a technique.  I was given a piece of steel wool and was instructed to scratch the surface for proper identification.  Dutifully, I fulfilled the assignment and soon we had a trailer load.  Excitedly, we headed for the scrap yard.

The scrap yard is the most culturally eclectic place I've witnessed since changing my name at the Social Security office!  At first I was a little intimidated with the rough mannerisms of the metal handlers.  Few words are spoken.  A heavy iron gate swung wide open for our trailer and we were directed by an unshaven man with a single finger pointing to the right side of the yard.  We pulled up and were met by a middle aged woman in a tank top advertising some local bail bond company.  She smiled through her decayed teeth and offered to help us unload.  The nearby radio station was blaring the latest version of "Your Cheatin' Heart."  The lady hummed the tune as she reached for the bumper of an old car.  I pulled on my gloves, opened the trailer doors and helped.  Finished, I thanked her for the help--she motioned me off as she reached for a nearby soda.   

Checking out through the same gate the same burly man silently took the slip of paper from my hand, noted the weight and counted back over $200 in my hand!!  My husband and I broke into a broad grin as we leafed through the 20 dollar bills.  We felt rich!  Little was said on the way back to our house.  My mind was filled with chores left undone and dinner to be made.  Without a word, my husband pulled into the grocery store parking lot.  "Let's barbecue burgers for the neighbors tonight, babe."  Good idea, I thought--nothing wrong with sharing the reward. 

The Life of a Queen

Having a hauling business also means having multiple diesel trucks, hydraulic dump trailers and more tools than I ever knew existed! I grew up in a family where one had a single set of wrenches, a hammer, two brooms (one for inside and one for outside), a few screw drivers, and a couple different sizes of shovels. When I met my husband, he lived in a condominium and had one tool box. The tool box had the basics and the lid easily closed! I am confident I was tricked.

Now our garage is lined with tool boxes and shelves. We have jack hammers, welders, different sizes of car, truck and trailer jacks. We have carpet cleaners, dollies, wheel barrows, vacuum cleaners, piles of tarps, cabinets of paints and oils and more household cleaners than I would need to clean all the houses on my street – every day – for the rest of my life! I am certain when we were married we shared the garage.  We came home from work each day, pulled our cars in the garage and smiled at each other.  I would change a load or two of laundry …  he would grab the mower or some garden tool and prune the yard -- I was definitely “Living the Life of a Queen.”

Today, I can barely close the garage door!  I would consider myself a Queen to have a small shelf to store laundry supplies.  Walking into the area is hazardous and has definitely been banned for bare feet!  With each new job, a new tool (or two) comes home. We have piles of tools we need to sort, piles of tools we need to donate and, I am sure, piles of tools we don’t know exist!  As long as I am able to clear a pathway to my laundry area, do I have a reason to complain?  Oh, and by the way...the lawn?--I mow it now!

Will I Ever Sleep Again!?

Shortly after having our first child, I became confident in my new role as “stay at home mother.” It wasn’t as tough as I imagined it would be. Although the new baby was getting up quite a few times at night, I was advised that I should take advantage of the baby's daytime naps to catch up on some of the lost sleep.  Yeah, right!  As every other seasoned mother knows quite the opposite happened.  While she napped, I dove into the daily chores that every stay-at-home Mom faced: endless "picking up"--dishes, newspapers, bath towels from the morning showers, dirty socks from yesterday's haul and oh! those muddy shoes; piles of fresh laundry to be folded; dinner to prepare and the nonstop responsibilities of the business.  

Sleep? Just as I would see the opportunity to close my eyes, either the hauling phone would ring or the baby would wake up.  

I am certain I am not the first new mother to profess angst over the lack of sleep, but keeping the business going during that particular time only added to my already hormonal imbalance.  I remember whining to my friends, “I have never been so tired in my life! Will I ever sleep again?” And, as good friends, they were quick to remind me of the double duty in which I was enlisted.  "Oh", but remember our college days?  We'd stay up all night, grab a cup of coffee and get to an 8 o'clock class, then rush to work for the night shift, make it home in time to meet at the neighborhood hangout and stay up all night again ..  why is this sleeplessness tougher"? We all laughed at those mindless days!  Now that I reflect I think a lot had to do with the fact that it was just me and my little girl whose only delight came from unscheduled suckling and a fresh diaper.  

Each day was absolutely up to me, I understand this. However, this could go south quickly with one call from an eager client or driver with a problem.  Often my decision was just survival!  And that I did.  There are more good things to remember than bad about my early motherhood days.  One thing I'm still particularly proud of is the fact that I was able to change a loaded diaper and schedule a hauling job all without baby or client knowing they are only getting half my attention!

Blaming Ourselves

“Do not talk to me when I am on this phone!” These words haunted me for months. I will never forget the look on the three year old's face when I barked these orders at her from across the room. “This phone” was the hauling phone. I had it in my pocket all the time. I answered it at the zoo, at the grocery store, in the middle of bath time, story time, lunch time … whenever it rang. It was my job.

Her little eyes welled up with tears as she tried to explain to me that she wanted help getting water for her sister (who was pretending to be her pet kitty). They were playing so nicely while I was on the “business” phone. Of course they didn’t understand the difference. All their young minds knew was that their make believe world needed attention, and all I knew was that I needed to take the call coming in so that I wouldn’t hear about how many calls I missed that day when my boss came home.

I have heard parents blame themselves for their children's bad behavior: mother’s feeling they shouldn’t have gone back to work so quickly when their children were born, father’s thinking they hadn’t spent enough time with their young children and mothers and fathers agreeing they have done and said things their children didn’t deserve.

I am not an expert on child rearing. In fact, I am sure I have done most everything wrong at times. What I do know is that as a parent when I make a mistake, I need to apologize and try to explain to my child why I was frustrated or upset. I hug and praise my children daily in hope that when I make my next mistake, they will know they are loved and they will bounce back as stronger individuals to take on the challenges of their future.