My garage is not a pretty place. None of the corners are square nor is the floor level. The track for the main door catches, the side door is nailed shut, and the window pane is gone so green corrugated plastic covers the window opening. The original suspended electrical cable put in when Minneapolis got electricity was cut before our time and has never been replaced so there's no lights. The old concrete floor is crumbling in places and there is a place on the back wall which bulges ominously. People ask if we park our car in there and while giving a politely vague reply, I think to myself, "No way, Jose. No way, no how." Or more frankly, hell no.
Since we moved in, the garage developed strata, like a rock formation, clear as geologic periods. There was our stuff- lawnmowers, weed whacker, bikes, wagon, garden gloves- the usual homeowner collection. Under our piles and behind our stuff leaning against the walls was stuff from Tim's parents who moved when we did, leaving numerous things behind in our garage. Under and behind their stuff was the rehabber's stuff- fence sections, mortar, boards and cardboard. Under and behind the rehabber's stuff was stuff from a previous owner- 50's vintage rakes and shovels with discolored wooden handles, badminton rackets, mason canning jars wrapped in newspaper dated the late 80's, and rusty old horseshoes. Under and behind that was the unknown. Mesozoic. Jurassic. Cretaceous.
But this spring, the garage had sunk to new lows, which given its unwelcoming nature is scary. One of the panels on the main door slipped out of place, leaving a convenient entrance for urban rodents. Numerous siding pieces had fallen off, many lying in the dirt where they'd fallen conspicuously behind our neighbor's garbage can which coincidentally they lean up against our garage. Several
soffit and fascia pieces had fallen off after the corner of the garage roof had been damaged last year (hit by a work truck, perhaps?). So the pigeons moved in, most particularly Sally, so dubbed by Anjali and her friend Emily, roosting at the top of the wall in the corner. So in your mind's eye, add a layer of feathers and pigeon poop over everything.
Three weeks ago I ate chocolate too close to bedtime and wound up lying awake, reflecting. Throwing away 50 things, gardening, the neighborhood kids who had come looking for jobs to earn money, how standing outside the garage's open door and looking in deflated me. Eleven years we'd been talking about cleaning up the garage and for 11 years it had deflated and defeated us. Quite candidly, I was really hoping Tim would get fed up with it and finally do it and I had pleaded and nagged to that end. But no. This night, with my resolve to eliminate that which weighed me down and an unpleasant realization that I needed to engage my own energy and exercise my own competency, I decided to take the project on myself. I fell asleep thinking about how to lift all that heavy dirt, fix the soffits, shovel all that poop....
Next morning, I talked with Tim and told him I wanted to tackle the garage project myself, my way. I told him that at the end all I wanted was 5 square feet right next to the door, enough for my bike, work gloves, trowel, shovel, and bike. He could have the rest and arrange it however he wanted as long as I got my 5 sq ft. He was willing to accept my decisions, providing they were frugal, in exchange for not having to deal with it and I was determined that I would do it myself and not ask for his help. I would be strong, clever, resourceful,
and frugal.
By 10:00 a.m. Friday I had a call in to a handy family friend asking for help and by that afternoon, he had swung by, checked out the problems, and agreed to take on the project. Tim was wowed by my swift action. The friend had things in ship shape within a week and as a friend, refused pay. Check.
Friday I researched various hazardous waste sites which would take dirt with lead paint chips and after a surprising number of dead ends, found one in St Paul which would accept the dirt which was 'temporarily' stored in my recycling bins since last summer. The bins weighed a lot, too much for me to lift. I hired neighborhood pre-teens after school one afternoon for $2/hr each to shovel the dirt into plastic grocery bags, tie the tops, and throw them in my trunk. Total cost? $12. Check.
Monday, I drove to the dump, paid my $20, and heaved the bags over the side of the dumpster. Check.
Tuesday, I hired the kids again to haul everything out of the garage. They donned work gloves, piled stuff in the yard and by the alley, swept up dirt and bird poop, and filled the garbage can. Tim did a walk-through selecting things to keep. I posted everything else, right there and then, on Craig's List for pick-up on Thursday afternoon. People started calling for our address within hours and contrary to my post, but not my wishes, someone came in the night and hauled most of the stuff away. Check.
Wednesday morning, I had to email and call everyone back, explaining what was gone and what was left. I went to the hardware store and bought a large garbage can to hold rakes, shovels, etc. for $20. Check.
Thursday, people arrived a half an hour early and everyone who came left with what they wanted- a soaker hose, a people-powered push mower, a router table and miter box- except possibly for the guy who came half an hour early and left without the push mower the other lady wanted. Once everything was out, the neighbor kids turned the hose on high and let loose on the inside of the garage, spraying the ceiling, walls, and floor- top to bottom, front to back- with a stream of dirty water trickling away in the gutter. No cobwebs, no poop, no rusty horse shoes. Check.
Friday, the garbage truck came, hauled some, and blue tagged us for the rest.
Saturday, Tim started putting stuff back.
Monday, the letter explaining we'd been cited by the city for chaos, all in technical terms of course, said that we had until Friday at 6:00 a.m. to dispose of everything within 20 feet of the alley or the special messes force would clean it up and bill us. I called a friend with a truck, left a message detailing the deadline, and asking him to call and let me know if he was available.
Tuesday night, I still hadn't heard from him. I could feel the deadline.
Wednesday morning, I called and got my free voucher for the transfer station. The man warned me to arrive before the 12:30 p.m. opening and to bring a book. Anjali and I loaded the boards and soggy cardboard into the Saturn, I taped a red cloth napkin on the longest board, grabbed
Pride and Prejudice, and drove cautiously away. I arrived by 12:25 and the line already stretched out the lot, across the street, and part way down the next block. I pulled into line, turned off my car, and started reading. I'll spare you a blow by blow of every creeping inch. I spent the worse part of 25 minutes parked in line with my engine turned off and all my windows down against the mildew reek of soggy cardboard. I reached the head of the line, got my pass, and then unloaded the wet cardboard, drove around and down to the debris lot, turned off my car yet again, and unloaded the boards- all 4 of them. Then I pulled around and waited all over again at the end of the line I had already waited through to get back to the building and return my pass. Another 35 minutes for 1 minute of the attendant's time. By this point, I was steaming like the old cardboard and probably stank, too. Driving home, I realized that this "free" voucher had cost me almost two hours of loading, driving, sitting, unloading, and more sitting. Bureaucratic punishment for my garbage sins. I vowed that no one, no one, was going to dump their crap in my garage again. Check *&%$#@!
Friday morning early, last inspection before garbage truck arrival. No fines. Check.
Sunday, I cleaned the pigeon poop off my bike and rode to church.
Tuesday, I bought work gloves and a trowel. Check.
Thursday, today-all I need to do is hang up the gloves, find a handy ledge for my trowel, and make sure my bike is in its space.
Now, do you find yourself saying, "Good grief, all of this over a garage?!?" In my irritated moments, gentle reader, I'm right there with you. Other people are combating world hunger, liberating sex slaves, educating the illiterate and I'm cleaning the garage. Yep.
And to really cap it off, 98% of it wasn't my mess or my fault. Not the lead paint or the rusty horseshoes. Not the scraped-off siding or the smashed roof or the miter box and router table or the cardboard or the tools or the mortar or the shingles. The soaker hose, that was mine. Basically, I spent all that time and effort cleaning up other people's messes. Messes from before I even owned this place. Messes from my first day here which 11 years later, I'm still cleaning up.
All of which remind me painfully of my life and my labors of my 30's to deal with the mess people have left behind in my life. Sexual abuse. Co-dependency. Workaholism. And when my life got chaotic trying to clean up the effects, I got cited for defaming the dead, lying, and being crazy.
My reflection leads me to examine my own role in the mess. Often in my life, I find that the deepest, longest lasting damage is done not by what others do to me but by me when I don't stand up for myself, when I choose coping strategies which compound the damage, when I compromise my own integrity and then live fearful of my own self without my own respect.
I allowed people to store their stuff in my garage. Yes, I was swamped by moving. Yes, I was young. But, still, I allowed people to store stuff in my garage and didn't confront them or ask them to pay to have it removed. So now I'm paying.
I didn't hold the rehabber accountable to come and clean up his mess. I even got a check at the house closing for $500 as security against the work which I could cash if he failed to finish the work. He didn't finish the work but I left the check hanging on my fridge for over a year, never cashed it, and much too much later, wound up throwing it away, embarrassed that it was now too late to decently hold him accountable. Now, I'm accountable.
I waited and hoped someone else would get frustrated enough to tackle the problem. I thought of it as temporary storage, just until somebody could get to it. I felt that it wasn't my responsibility even if it was my garage and I worked quite hard to pass the buck. Now, $80, three weeks, and some cleverness later, it's over and I finished it.
I was clever and resourceful and frugal and strong. I worked smarter but not too hard. I persisted and it is finished. So, too, has been my experience in my life. The worst damage done to me was by me and yet if, as Angela says, I drove myself here, I can get out the keys, come back for myself and drive somewhere else. She also said, what's really scary is, if I left myself somewhere way back, who's driving my life now?
The answer to that, my friends, is I am. I am hauling my own garbage and utilizing my own resources and cleaning my own garage.
So, next time you come over, ask to see my garage. It's not about what's there. It's about what's not there.
