Hauling Secrets

The other day we did a job in a woman’s basement. She was clearing it out in order to make room for the stuff from the rest of the house, which she planned to rent. Only thing is, the piles of stuff in the rest of the house were pretty much indistinguishable from the piles in the basement. All junk, broken and dusty. And even in the basement, she had some things tagged with stickers to go, right next to identically worthless things she wanted to stay.

This kind of thing happens all the time. A person’s selectivity seems arbitrary to us, since we cannot know what meanings they give to certain objects. Sometimes we come back later and end up taking everything in stages that are more comfortable for the person to deal with. But usually we just come and go wondering why the hell we took some things and not others.

Anyway, the whole time we were doing this job, a painted portrait was staring at us down in the cobwebby basement:

I can’t say who this person was, but I know for certain that the painting is a genuine attempt by an artist to paint a portrait of an actual person. Not a joke, or a playful rendering. An actual portrait. (I know because I saw other representations of this girl as an adult.)

We were a little bit afraid to ask too forcibly about which things stayed and went. The girl’s eyes followed us around the room to make sure we didn’t take anything we weren’t supposed to. And luckily for the sanity of guests in my living room, the painting itself stayed.

Before I leave for a 10-day vacation, I thought I’d post a Pornface that truly requires at least 10 days of contemplation:

I swear this was from a porn magazine. Her native garb and vacant stare are supposed to be sexy somehow.

The other day Django and I did a job where the landlord had thrown all of a previous tenant’s possessions into the backyard. When we arrived, the new tenant came out to greet us and asked if we were there to get rid of the trash in the back. We were.

Only it wasn’t all trash. (Though you wouldn’t know it from the way it was all heaped in a pile.) There in a pile of old frames was a typewritten letter from the Air Force Headquarters of the U.S. Army, dated September 22, 1945. The main body of the letter read thusly:

In accordance with Par. 1d, letter Hq USAF CBI, file 200.6 dated 3 June 1944, subject: “War Department Awards Policy”, the following is the citation for the Bronze Star Medal awarded to 1st Lt., Roger McGregor, Signal Corp by Par. 2, General Order 355, this headquarters, dated 13 September 1945:

“For meritorious service from 1 April 1944 to 1 February 1945. This officer established and maintained a series of ground observation posts in forward areas, which were instrumental in preventing enemy aircraft from penetrating allied territory without being detected and reported to intercepting forces. To establish some of these advance air warning stations he frequently pushed deep into uncharted, enemy-held territory, and often narrowly escaped contact with Japanese patrols. His daring, stamina, and superior qualities of leadership enabled this officer to guide and direct his men in their hazardous undertakings. His accomplishments were substantial contributions to the success achieved by his organization.”

In the frame next to the letter was the actual bronze star, hanging by its little ribbon.

Then, in another frame, a handwritten letter:

Dear Mr. & Mrs. McGregor,

This is a belated reply to your reply to your letter concerning your son James. I would have liked to have writted sooner but being hospitalized, I found it difficult to do so.

I know that any poor words of mind can never lighten the burden of your sorrow. Only our Blessed Lord can do that. But in your grief you can be so very proud of James – pround to have been privileged to be the father and mother of one so close to God and his Blessed Mother.

God gave him to you knowing well that in your loving care he would grow and flower into that great Christian gentleman that he was. Now your work is over and God has reclaimed the great gift he gave you. If there is anything that will ease the ache in your hearts it will be the knowledge that God must love you both so very much to have entrusted such a one to you. May God bless you both.

I knew James for more than two years, lived in the same tent with him, slept and ate with him. As a priest I could never have asked for a better companion. He is loved not only be my but also by his men. They will never forget him.

I jumped from James’ plane often. Always immediately after him. It was a rare privilege. Many a laugh we had whether it was he who pulled me out or I who pushed him out. Now it is all over. But my fondest recollection of James is he and his battalion commander, Major Kellem, serving the last Mass we had for taking off for France. (James often served my Mass). The men often talked of it afterwards. The sight of them serving the mass, receiving Holy Communion, the last Blessing, was a sight that filled the men with a calmness and a fearlessness that comes from knowing we are in the presence of God.

James saved my life that night. I was injured on the Jump. He dragged me to safety. A few hours later he was dead. I shall always remember hi at Mass. It is the best way I know how to express my gratitude. I did not bury him, but two days later I blessed his grave.

I know you both are heartbroked at your loss. You always will be. If there is one who can and will ease the ache in your heart, it is the Mother of Sorrows. She also lost her son. May she comfort you in your grief. I shall remember you and yours in my Masses.

Sincerely in Christ,
Chaplain Mark O’Connor

I held on to these two letters for a few days, intending to post them here. Then, on my day off, I got an unexpected call from Bossman telling me he’s got someone on the phone claiming to have lost some valuable family heirlooms in a cleanout his landlord did. At first I didn’t think anything of it, but then Bossman said, passing along the pleas of the person in front of him at the office, “Something about a bronze star?” Apparently this guy was the nephew of the war hero from the letters. I knew that I had to return them.

And when I did, I recieved a third letter:

Smidge,
Thanks for your kindness and consideration! I am (was) the family historian. The barn was loaded with historical family things. My family is devastated by our loss. Your thoughtfulness will be well received by our family.
John McGregor

If I ever feel sketchy about looking through people’s discards and posting about their treasures here, I can think about this and remind myself that a little curiosity mixed with obsessive hoarding/archiving can be a good thing.

One of my favorite finds was 13 pages of letters written by a Union soldier during the Civil War. I spent a few days squinting at the thin, brown paper to transcribe them all.

Some of the papers are actual letters addressed to the soldier’s wife or his “companion”; others seem to be personal records with dates & places and short notes of what happened when & where. Some sheets of paper have both letter and record combined. (I can imagine paper being somewhat scarce then.)

Below are some excerpts of my transcriptions. I’ve added punctuation and corrected some misspellings and grammatical errors to aid in understanding the content of the text. Other “errors” I’ve left intact to preserve some of the idiosyncratic charm of the writing. I put “errors” in quotes because you have to remember that spelling was not nearly so standard back then as it is now. The handwriting of the originals is hard to read at parts. Words or phrases that I’m not sure about are enclosed in brackets or followed by a question mark. I’ve tried my best to put all the following passages in chronological order, from Jan 24 1862 to July 2 1864, after which time we can only assume this soldier finished his service to his country – or died in it.

There are so many little treasures in this text, but I’ve tried to keep the commentary to a minimum, so you can enjoy it the way I have.

“Jan 24-30 of 1862, Boling Green”:

I have not forgotten you nor thy children, this is from your husband in the Company D 39th Reg Ind of the US Army of the Ohio commanded by Genl Rosecrans[?]. Our old Genl Willick is back and commanding our Brigade

Later on the page he says he “got my likeness taken” and “sent my likeness to my wife”.

Then, “in camp 6 Mil SE of Nash Tenn, Nov the 21st 1862″

…in the evening of the 23 a contraband woman of 18 years came and told us how that her master had given information to a Rebel soldier about our lines and number. She came with us to camp and of course is free, and her master a prisoner.

“Contraband woman” was a common term for a woman slave who fled North across battle lines during the Civil War. You can hear the naivety of the young soldier in his brief “of course she is free”. Of course it was never that simple. Continue Reading »

Glove Golf is usually played in a parking lot or driveway while waiting for a customer to arrive when there’s not enough time for something productive to be done. Each crew member stands and throws his glove into the air, above a certain agreed-upon height. Wherever it lands, he must count the number of normal steps it takes to get there and add that number to his score. Take turns and the one who has the lowest score when you stop wins.

It’s a rare occasion when we get tips from customers. Movers get tipped more regularly, even though it’s often us haulers who are doing the more onerous work.

I can’t tell you how many times we’ve heard from a client, after swiftly maneuvering a couch up a two-turn stairway, “Wow, it took the movers twenty minutes to do that. And they scratched up the walls!” Then no tip. And sometimes we’ll be at a job the same time as the movers and they’ll tell us they’re sorry we have to deal with the ‘leftovers’ but they’re glad it’s not them.

But this is about more than us. Think about your everyday household waste. Every week someone comes and takes away the stuff you don’t want to deal with. That is kind of amazing. Like postal delivery, it’s this extremely important service that people often take for granted.

I say don’t take it for granted. Some people still give their mail carriers a little holiday bonus. Why not show your garbage collectors that you appreciate what they do too? We always appreciate tips. Plus, your hauler, like your mail carrier, is a good person to have on your side.

Join the brown ribbon campaign to tip haulers. Copy one of the images below (or make your own; sorry, i’m no graphic designer) and post them on your website. Together we can make sure haulers everywhere know they’re appreciated.

Thursday 2-26-80
Dear Lee Chin,
Sorry I haven’t written in a while, but I’m writing now so what do you want!?!? I cleaned my room this weekend. I’m so proud of myself! I’m going to try out for the play this year. Tryouts are Thursday. You have to sing something and read something. I don’t know what I’m going to read. I’m going to sing either “Let It Be” or “Bookends”. I went to the dentist today and I have no cavities! Wow!!!! So, any road, “I’m-a-leavin” [musical notes scribbled around "I'm-a-leavin"]. I might write later, then again I might not – Mary

Ooh. After not writing for a month, Mary’s getting a little saucy with Lee Chin, who keeps developing into a real entity that Mary feels chastising her. So she gets all defensive at the beginning and threatens not to write again at the end. So teenage. But aren’t we all?

The other day I found, in a box of old US and foreign coins and personal memorabilia, this little fur clasp purse:

Its only contents were a pair of tweezers, a medal keyring-type clasp with some sort of seal stamped on what appears to be gold, and an old crumbling note that looks like it had been folded in someone’s pocket for years. The note reads, in faded pencil:

Staying alone for the first time 1944.

This is a mystery I want to solve.  But I need your help.  Can anyone identify the seal?  It has a front and a back:
   

Or can anyone hazard a guess about this mysterious little purse?

My ankle has mostly healed and I’m back to work. Thanks for all your well-wishes.

So the other day Wonderboy and I are cleaning out the place next to the maintenance garage at a huge student condo complex where all the residents throw out their large items before moving. The maintenance guy tells us they’ve had problems with new residents scavenging from these piles and complaining later about bedbugs. It’s pretty nasty. Mostly mattresses that have been sitting out getting rained on for weeks.

A completely waterlogged full-size futon cushion, by the way, is one of the heaviest and most awkward things a hauler will ever have to carry.

There’s a faint smell of skunk the whole time we’re doing this job. It gets stronger as we get deeper into the pile. The maintenance guy tells us they’ve been smelling it for weeks. So me and Wonderboy are expecting to see a skunk under every mattress that we pry up from the wet dirt. And when you’re expecting to see something, you start to think you see it everywhere. A few tense minutes go by before I uncover this:

I make a mad dash away before I realize that the skunk is dead. It must’ve been there for weeks. And we had to smell it for the time it took to load four truckloads of nasty student apartment castoffs.

Hauling is not all games and treasures. We have to go through things like this in order to get to the good stuff.