A DIRTY HABIT REVEALED (with pictures)

Driving home from dropping my son off at work I took an unplanned side trip. Against my better judgment and in blatant defiance of my feeble, self imposed prohibition I found myself driving right past the exit home and onward to that dank and musty den of self-degradation whose siren call I am obliged to answer. With a mighty sense of shame and the weight of neglected duties and misspent time wrapped uncomfortably round my neck, I grabbed my canvas bag, my only tool and receptacle for the dirty task ahead and walked once more through those dreadful doors. Like a junkie dying for a fix or a gambler who tells himself that this one last roll of the dice is going to provide the payoff he’s been promised, I threw aside all reason and prostituted myself to that avaricious peddler of dead persons’ divested dreams known as Goodwill.

The less you know about the box-store breadth of the enormous sewer known as the Goodwill Outlet Store, the better for your sanity, dignity and sense of hygienic well-being. There really isn’t that much to describe, but imagine a long abandoned Dolgins or Home Quarters reborn with half its fluorescent lighting stingily replaced, barren floors lazily swept, trailer loads of trash dumped in its center and its doors suddenly flung open to the public. You will never find a more simplistic business model. Battered shopping carts, a few checkout stands, enormous blue bins of strangers’ garbage and that sofa bed couch where grandma expired leaving nothing behind but gingerbread memories and a pungent stain. This is what constitutes a ‘store’ in the eyes of Goodwill. Add a cast of characters that make that wretched hive of scum and villainy from Mos Eisley Spaceport look like The Pat Holt Singers by comparison and you get some idea of the experience.

If you come to dive through the trash you better bring a pair of heavy gloves and a set of sharp elbows. Shattered picture frames replete with shards of glass, broken toys, upturned puzzles, greasy kitchen appliances and soiled linens, moldy records and strands of tangled Christmas lights are just some of the treasure you’ll find your fellow shoppers fighting over, and fight they do. Many of these folks are professional bin divers and they don’t take kindly to interlopers. They are crazed and rude as they frantically pull apart the entangled masses of junk. Violently tossing aside rejected debris; they dig deeper into the pigswill for that treasured jewel that lies just beneath the Cabbage Patch Kid with the cigarette burn on its cheek and the spider’s nest in its hair. What is deemed worthy and unworthy in their ringed, wild eyes is hard to discern but, as their piled high carts will attest, they do commit, time and time again. Many of the cars, vans and U-Hauls on the parking lot are so crammed full of their finds you can see none of the interior save for a small open space behind the wheel. They are essentially Oscar the Grouch driving Dagwood Bumstead’s closet down the highway at 70 miles per hour with five blind spots, two donut spare tires and a cat on their lap. Give them a wide berth should you encounter them. Maniacs to be sure, but they are at least industrious maniacs as they scour their phones searching eBay to calculate the foreseeable profit on their purchased by the pound rubbish.

I however am above that. Yes, I must admit I’m a bit of a dumpster snob. I’m not interested in rubbish by the pound; rather it is books by the inch that draw me to this perilous pit of putrid pestilence. (Read that last part in Dr. Smith’s voice for full effect.) Upon entrance, over to the left, starting in the corner and wrapping down the far wall are the book bins. Unceremoniously dumped in heaping piles are discarded textbooks, encyclopedias, magazines, children’s books, novels, manuals, cookbooks, pamphlets and assorted paraphernalia. It is in these bins where the real treasure lies.

To be clear, I need more books like another hole in the head and while I tell myself, my eventual purpose is to read or at least peruse each and every rescued volume; the truth is that it’s never going to happen. If I started today and did nothing but read till my dying day I might put a dent in the stacks but only a dent. What compels me to collect them is the history they hold. I have found beautifully illustrated 150-year-old volumes, I have found bookmobile favorites that I had not seen for 45 years and I have found pristine periodicals from decades past whose pages reveal such wonders as if I were opening a time capsule. I love what I find and I love that I rescued it. I am discriminating but not particular, if it piques my interest, it goes in the bag and when the bag is full, I am done. There are those that take two shopping carts and load them till they are spilling over, I presume with intent to resell but that is not my purpose. I learn so much from each accumulated pile. I am reminded of the quaint simplicity of days gone by as well as the ugly and violent history that brought us to where we are, for better or for worse. I try to reconcile knowledge that was once valued and appreciated with the way similar viewpoints might be perceived today. In the end there is no explanation for the change other than time itself. Time marches forward and we leave the past to rot and ruin. Until I step in and rescue it.

What follows is the haul from one recent trip and my effort to explain why it was worthy of retrieval:

THE CAPITOL

Published way back in 1959 when the our nation’s Capitol was merely populated with run of the mill scoundrels, rapscallions and Klansmen and not the artfully conniving professional cartel of Pharma-Whores, shape shifters, grifters, grafters and serial gropers that today haunt those venerable halls, this quaint look at our House of Representatives is chock full of naïve discarded ideals like God and Power of the People.

Schoolhouse Rock did it better.

THE ANNOTATED SHERLOCK HOLMES VOLUME II by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

A whole bunch of neatly illustrated Sherlock, post-Rathbone, pre-Cumberbatch.

TOMART’S PRICE GUIDE TO HOT WHEELS

And now you know the stock-number for the Red Baron car is 6400. You’re welcome.

THE RISE AND FALL OF THE THIRD REICH & HITLER, A STUDY IN TYRANNY

Boo-hiss of course but valuable history nonetheless.

LIFE IN AMERICA – THE SOUTH

The South as presented in 1951. Inferences are as abundant as cotton way down yonder.

CHILDCRAFT VOLUME 6 – HOLIDAYS AND FAMOUS PEOPLE

It may trouble you to know the Robert E. Lee until quite recently was lauded as an American Hero to generations of children. Or maybe that doesn’t trouble you at all.

I can’t begin to tell you what you should think of Robert E. Lee but I can tell you confidently not to be afraid of history. Want to know more about an individual and the good, the bad and the ugly of their lives? Read a book or two before they are all burned.

THE PUSSY WHO WENT TO THE MOON by JANE THAYER

Published in 1960 when anyone could go to the moon and rockets only cost $70 Billion. Further evidence that cat ownership has always presented a measure of pain in the ass.

BIG RED – STORY OF THE CARDINALS by ROBERT L. BURNES

The story of our town’s third NFL team as told by the great sportswriter of the old Globe-Democrat, Robert L. Burnes.

Doesn’t this photo stir the urge to punch the Bidwill Brothers right in their stupid, bespectacled faces?

Tim Van Galder & Ahmad Rashad

NINA and SKEEZIX, THE PROBLEM OF THE LOST RING

Growing up did any old person ever call you Skeezix and you maybe didn’t know what the hell they were talking about?

Well, this is Skeezix!

HISTORY of the CONQUEST of PERU by WILLIAM H PRESCOTT, Published 1911

If you are going to write a history of an indigenous people, here is a helpful tip to remember: The chapter titled Conquest always follows the chapter titled Discovery.

Here is a completely intact book of advice on how to throw a baby shower complete with tear out pages of games for the guests. “Men are not necessary, but they’re not barred.”