A potato masher, didgeridoo, and, uh, six vacuums. Why I rescue trash.

Earth-friendly living can sometimes be confused – confused, mind you – with cheapness. And while reducing and recycling can be accomplished out of the public eye, reusing may expose one to scrutiny. 

“Where did we get this?” my wife asks me when she comes across a new-to-her item in our household. She already knows the answer: Either I bought it at a yard sale, or I found it on the street. Let’s say “rescued,” actually. Rescued it from the street.  

Items in that category include: the desk chair I’m sitting in, a much better potato masher than the one I broke, a splitting maul with an intact handle (unlike mine), silverware I keep in the car so we don’t use plastic stuff when we eat at the fish place, a banjo, and a didgeridoo. And, uh, six vacuum cleaners.

It is difficult to shame me about this, though I may be vulnerable on the vacuum collection. I feel both a moral and a pecuniary impulse. Why should something go to a landfill if I have a use for it? Why should I pay top dollar for something if I can snag one that’s as good (or better) at low or no cost? Town tradition enables me: People just leave stuff out with “FREE” signs on it. 

So what if my personal imperatives mean rummaging in a cardboard box on the sidewalk while my dog tugs on her leash and the occasional passing car toots a hello? However, I do occasionally rehearse what I’d say if I were to encounter someone I know – or someone I don’t know who looks alarmed – while I’m carrying, say, a rescued banjo. “Where’s your banjo?” perhaps, or “This is how Steve Martin got his start.” If you’re grasping a splitting maul, a terse nod will suffice.

I paid cash for an aircraft carrier once. It was a toy aircraft carrier, but a spectacular one. It was the most plastic I’d ever seen in one place: 5 feet long, 3 feet wide, and 2 1/2 feet tall. It was in pieces when I bought it from a friend, and woefully incomplete. 

Our three boys were young then, and money was tight. I was experienced at this. Cocky, even. Using toll-free numbers (the internet was nascent), I felt I could restore the waterline model to its epic glory. 

Sadly, I could not. I couldn’t find parts. I did acquire instructions, which solved some mysteries while revealing how many more pieces were not included. 

Just as well. It was gigantic. It fit in the living room, but just barely. This meant it was out and assembled (sort of) for only short periods of time. The boys quickly outgrew it, and I moved it along. It felt right to sell it for what I’d paid: four bucks. 

My internet-fueled confidence in locating and installing replacement parts, my cleaning skills (many nondish items do fit in a dishwasher), and my eagerness to restore value inexpensively might explain the vacuum cleaners. Some objects call out to me for redemption, and often I must lug them home. You will be relieved to know that at present we own but one vacuum. The others – cleaned or repaired or both – have all found loving homes. I even helped a gentleman select from among my display (free) at the end of our drive. Do I miss them? Sometimes ...

In case you’re persuaded that you, too, should peer into cardboard boxes along your route, or visit the yard sale next door, I offer this cautionary tale.

I spotted the rug immediately at a yard sale that was winding down. It looked new, and I didn’t have to talk myself into admiring the pattern. It had a medium nap and was a good size – 5 by 8 or better. Twenty bucks. I couldn’t get the money out of my wallet fast enough. 

Not until I got it home and inside did I realize why the rug had been so inexpensive and yet still available. What was that smell?

It was not a wanton-pet smell, but a penetrating, chemical odor. Would it yield to cleaning? It would not. 

I went online, and found that this carpet was notorious. The glue used to attach the fibers to the backing was off-gassing VOCs (volatile organic compounds) and would do so far into the indeterminate future. 

Out to the curb it went. I like to think it may have become the Flying Dutchman of floor coverings, sailing from curbside to home and then rapidly back to a new curb. It may be out there still.  

Reusing is noble and economical. It can enrich one’s experience – how else would I know how hard it is to play a didgeridoo? Reusing requires daring, even brazenness. One must be impervious to sidelong glances. It rewards with the satisfaction of having spotted and redeemed unseen value and worth.  

But if you decide to join me in this campaign, remember: Wake up and smell the carpet.