Across the quiet street from the Summerdale Drive House stood the home of my neighbor, Jerry Watson, an elderly retired man. At present, Watson was out in the street, busily engaged in pushing a piece of green-tinctured machinery which at first somewhat resembled a lawn mower, but which actually turned out to be a fertilizer spreader. As Watson pushed the machine around the street, the little pellets of fertilizer flew in a circular array from the machine. Obviously motorized, the machine seemed to be in good working order. But why, I wondered, was Watson spreading the fertilizer in the street, instead of on his lawn?

The answer soon seemed obvious. Also sitting in the street in front of the Watson house was a garbage truck. Clearly Watson intended to dispose of the spreader, and he was simply emptying out the last remnants of fertilizer before loading the spreader on the truck. Curious, I casually ambled over to the other side of the street to take a closer look at the spreader. If Watson were just going to throw the spreader away, perhaps I would take it. The spreader was obviously much nicer than the little manual push-spreader which I owned.

But by the time I reached Watson, he had picked up the spreader, as well as a green-hued lawnmower, and crammed them both into the back of the garbage truck. I was surprised he had been strong enough to lift such large pieces. I immediately asked, "Mr. Watson, you're throwing that spreader away?" He somewhat gruffly indicated he was. Apparently disinclined to pursue the topic further, he turned away from me.

I looked longingly at the spreader, thinking I could still pull it off the truck. But how would that look, out here in front of everybody, pulling something out of the garbage truck? Reluctantly I turned away, deciding to simply let it go.

I thought I would probably be writing to Donna and telling her about this incident. She would probably be surprised to know I had been interested in something like a fertilizer spreader. But I thought she would be intrigued because she liked to raise a garden, and thus also had to know something about fertilizer. I could even picture her out in her garden, on bended knees, working with the plants. A little fantasy ran through my mind, how I might just show up at her little house one day and move in with her. I could envision the two of us working on the garden together. But I also fantasized that when I finally went to Donna, I would be down-and-out, having lost everything I owned. I would have lost my law license, perhaps even be a convict. Would Donna take me in then? I recalled her telling me she would like to live a more dangerous life. But would she want me when I had lost everything? I was unsure, but I thought she would.

Before I crossed the street back to my House, I noticed Watson appeared to be having a yard sale in front of his home. But apparently he was only selling plastic boxes, about the size of fishing-tackle boxes. A hundred or more of the boxes, all different colors, stood stacked in front of his house.

Heading on across the street to my house, I noticed I also had a few things in my yard which I was trying to sell. I would be moving from this House soon, and the sale was part of my on-going effort to clear out the House. Perhaps Watson's sale would encourage more people to stop at my House.

After stepping into my House, I went straight to a small side room, a room which I didn't recall having entered in quite a while. Instead of the normal white walls of my home, this room had dark walls, and reminded me of a room of a home in which I had lived in my distant past. As I sat down and looked around the room, I was somewhat amazed by all the objects sitting in here. I thought I had already packed most of the things in the House, anticipating my upcoming move. But here was a whole roomful of things which I had overlooked. I would have to attend to all this.

In the middle of the room stood a small wooden well-made bed. But it was the small objects sitting around the room which caught my attention. Many items seemed to be hanging on the walls. I particularly noticed mounted on the wall a bronze bear, from the breast up, its open snarling mouth and its two forearms flaying in the air. It was probably one-tenth life size. Next to the bear, also mounted on the wall, was an orange black-striped tiger, likewise cut off at the breast as if leaping out of the wall, also with open mouth and flashing claws. The tiger wasn't made of bronze, but fabricated from some other brightly painted material. I had completely forgotten about these pieces of art. Clearly I would have to either pack them up to take with me, or sell them.

Also sitting on shelves in the room were a number of small less impressive figurines of cowboys riding horses. Right in front of me, sitting on a white long-horned bull, was a figure of the Lone Ranger. The Lone Ranger seemed to be made of plastic, and his head seemed to be bent backwards a little too much. But still, it was a figure which I had collected for some reason, and I needed to decide what to do with it.

But the most impressive object in the small room was sitting on the wall at the rear, atop a mantel. It was a large intricately carved mantel piece, about a meter tall, hewn from brown wood. The piece appeared to have been made in India, and was filled with many typical Indian figures from Indian mythology. I definitely would like to keep this piece. But clearly it would be a burden to try to take it with me. Perhaps I would try to sell it at our moving sale. I would probably ask about $300 for it. Such a price would be cheap, and I would probably not be able to replace it. It was a dilemma what to do with everything.

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