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Garage
(g-raj’): A building or wing of a building in which to park a car or
cars.
Oh, so that’s what it’s for. I
could have sworn it was for storing Notinheres. You know, those
possessions that live in the house until someone asks the fateful
question, “Where should I put this?”
“Not-in-here.”
Out it goes to the garage,
where it begins its new life.
It’s not a bad fate being
relegated to the garage. There’s plenty of fresh air (except for the
exhaust fumes), no one bothers you (except to shove you deeper into a
corner), and with luck you can live to extreme old age (anyone care for
a fossilized can of mauve paint?).
The inhabitants of the garage
could live a peaceful existence if it weren’t for one thing.
Guilt.
Once a year I get the urge to
do it. God nudges me out the door and reminds me that cleanliness is
next to godliness, and He loves a cheerful giver. So I give my all
toward cleaning the garage.
This usually involves
relocating the Notinheres from one shelf to another. However, this year
I’m determined to hold King Solomon as my role motto: Be
strong and do the work. I’m going to be brutal and actually
give things away and throw away even more.
Toward this end, I don my
grungiest sweat pants, a yellow T-shirt that reads I GOT OUT
OF BED FOR THIS? and cover my hair so I resemble a Russian
peasant working in the fields of a Siberian commune. I grab a broom and
present myself to my family.
“Wish me luck,” I tell them.
“I’m going to clean the garage.”
“Knock yourself out, honey,”
says my husband.
“No, you don’t understand,” I
say. “This year I’m going to try something new. I’m going to throw
things away.”
He snaps to attention. “Don’t
you dare touch Ed McMahon.”
This is not a joke. A
life-sized cardboard cutout of Johnny Carson’s sidekick, Ed McMahon—a
sales promotion for something or other, long forgotten—followed us
during a move from Nebraska to Kansas. He comes to all our parties, his
hands holding a HAPPY NEW YEAR or GO BIG RED sign.
“But Ed’s neck is broken. It’s
really time we got rid—”
“Not Ed!” he says.
“And don’t give away my Rainbow
Brite skates,” says our oldest daughter, Emily, who’s brought our
granddaughter over to visit.
“Or my football that doesn’t
have any air,” says middle child, Carson,
who’s come to borrow a hedge trimmer for his own to-do list but has
been delayed by a baseball game on TV.
“Or my Boxcar Children books,”
says twenty-something Laurel, who’s in town to visit us—and her friends
(or is she here to visit her friends—and us?).
A sinister smile spreads across
my face, and I point a finger at all of them. “‘A sluggard does not
plow in season; so at harvest time he looks but finds nothing.’”
My family stares at me,
uncomprehending. In truth . . .
I got nothing.
I
close the door on all
witnesses, determined to begin. The cars sit in the driveway, daring
me, pleading with me to make a place for them. I move a trash can to
center stage for the throwaways
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and
a trash bag for the giveaways. I
survey the Notinheres that line the perimeter like wallflowers at a
middle-school dance. I turn on some music: the theme from Rocky
offers the perfect inspiration.
As the music swells I gain new
strength. “Ready or not . . .”
With mad abandon, I make a
beeline for Ed McMahon. His head droops. Cobwebs stretch between his
ear and shoulder.
“Sorry, Ed. Sacrifices have to
be made.”
Next go the Rainbow Brite
skates. I ignore the thought that if I keep them long enough they might
be worth something on eBay—even if they are missing a wheel. I toss the
airless ball (with the slit in the side) into the trash. The Boxcar
books find a place in the giveaway bag.
The pile in the middle of the
garage grows as I cut a swath through the tangle of garden hoses,
Christmas lights, and torn volleyball nets. My family peeks through the
door, checking my progress.
“Don’t throw that—”
“Back, I say!” I brandish a
Weed Eater that hasn’t worked in four years. “No one comes out until I
say it’s safe!” They wisely retreat lest I quote another proverb about
plowing and sluggards.
I am merciless. I toss. I
throw. I sweep.
And finally . . . I’m done.
I open the door and call, “All
clear. Everybody out!”
They file into the garage.
Their oohs and ahhs are fitting
payment for five hours of work.
I begin my “From now on” speech
directed toward my husband: “From now on all the sports equipment goes
here and the tools go over there . . .”
I catch Mark staring wistfully
toward the curb where the trash cans await pickup. Ed McMahon waves a
farewell, his head bobbing in the breeze.
“It’ll be all right,” I tell
him. “It was simply . . . his time.”
The next day, when I get in my
car to go on errands, I notice an addition to our freshly cleaned
garage. It’s Ed. He’s waving hello from the corner behind the lawn
mower, with duct tape strengthening his neck muscles.
I remind myself that God is all
about second chances.
For garages.
For Ed.
And even for me.
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