Pack rats are great natural clutter collectors, but the mother of all clutter collectors, by far the most powerful, is the human couple. Nor do I excuse myself or my wife from that description. In truth, the pack rat collects far less than many humans do, though Mr. and Mrs. Rat do appreciate the housing we provide for them as part of our apparent contract with our genetic code.
The late George Carlin had a great bit on that topic, though he used a pithier word than “clutter.” He talked about our innate tendency to keep acquiring material possessions until we have to rent or buy a bigger house to accommodate all our…stuff. That may not seem particularly hilarious, but with Carlin’s delivery, it really is laugh-till-you-cry funny. It’s impossible for me to avoid thinking about the acquisitive nature of homo sapiens because I’m currently cleaning up around the Border Fort (our home) in order to (a) lessen the load to take when we eventually move back to Montana, and to (b) make the Border Fort more attractive to potential buyers. And wow, did we ever accumulate clutter in the eight years we’ve been here. Just…wow. True, a fair bit of that was clutter we’d dragged along from Colorado in 2009 and from Montana in 2006, some of it being literally nothing but junk in our trunk that we hadn’t used since South Dakota in 1999, but still.
How much clutter? Well, that was the question, right? Definitely enough to justify paying to have a roll off dumpster service deliver a big trash hauler thingie instead of making run after run to the local landfill–or more specifically, in this southern Cochise County area, to the refuse transfer station. A bit of Internet searching revealed that these heavy duty dumpsters, the types used by commercial contractors, come in four basic sizes: 10, 20, 30, and 40. Cubic yards, that is. It seemed like a 30 yard dumpster might be about right, but there’s so much guesswork involved, especially when there were so many sources of hey-we-don’t-need-this to consider. By the numbers:
1. Shed B, currently filled with a cement mixer I’d give away, other construction goodies and not-so-goodies, plus a cedar chest of Pam’s that the mice might or might not have compromised.
2. Shed A, aka the Laundry Shed, which houses clutter along with the washer and dryer.
3. The semi trailer, once packed stem to stern with clutter. Though much improved (reduced clutter) in recent years, there was still plenty of stuff arrayed along each sidewall.
4. Under the semi trailer, including an old home built screen door, two slider windows that were given to us when a replacement building was planned (but never built) to replace the semi, left over earth bags from building the Border Fort, you name it.
5. Out back of the house, just old lumber and unused stucco mesh lying in the weeds.
6. A pile of junk lumber scraps in front of the house, long left in place to serve as a bunny hide, though we hadn’t seen any sign of our resident desert cottontails using that pile in the last three or four years.
7. Under the water tower, junk sitting atop the old rotting wooden platform we used for our first (cold water) showers before we had, you know, an actual building to live in.
8. In the Border Fort itself, stuff that just plain didn’t need to be there. The rock hard twin mattress atop a heavy-as-sin pressed board foundation with drawers? That could be given to Zach, as it turned out…but there was other stuff in that little room. And stuff in my own bedroom, too, including a sizeable cardboard box full of…um…”romantic aides” that made no sense to keep, since my beloved wife has been too ill to play for lo, these many long years.
9. Between Shed B and Shed C, the huge pile of lumber scraps, many of them (but not all by a long shot) from the original building of the Border Fort.
10. Miscellaneous, because listing any more detailed areas for cleanup would leave the reader bored to tears. It’s bad enough when it’s your own hoard; reading about the other person’s clutter collection is hardly blockbuster material, right?
So, again, how big should the dumpster be? Answer: As big as I could get! Which was of course the 40 cubic yard version. Jackie Collins (yes, that’s her real name), the Realtor who will be listing the Border Fort for sale (Hereford Realty), recommended J and D out of Huachuca City. I called Joshua at J and D. Sure enough, his price for the big bin was the best I was going to find in the area: $350. Then when the dumpster is dumped at the dump, and they know what the County has charged to accept the tons of landfill material (no tires, hazardous materials, or paint cans), I’ll get the bill.
We talked on Monday afternoon; his driver dropped the roll off before 1:00 p.m. on Tuesday–and I went right to work. Pam is coming back home from Utah after all, and my goal is to have the entire homestead “deep cleaned” by the time she arrives, probably sometime this coming Sunday.
Naturally, diving into what was at times heavy lifting by anyone’s definition (left over 80 lb. bags of concrete stucco, for example), the first thing I did was tweak my lower back. The rest of the week would be interesting indeed–but in between back spasms, I was purely loving the process.
Lift that load! Tote that bale! Sparkle-clean Border Fort is my Holy Grail!
Day by hard working day, progress was made. Shed B was emptied first, the cement mixer going to Zach (Pam’s son) but most of the rest of the contents hitting the dumpster, big time. Example: Pam’s prized cedar chest (fake cedar, just a cedar veneer lining inside and an oak veneer outside, sandwiching cheap pressed board construction)…well, yes, the mice had done a job on it, starting with massive urine-and-other stains covering the lid. The chest contained a couple of old quilts Pam was sorry to see go, but they weren’t salvageable–and when I went to pick up the chest, the bottom literally fell off.
Hi ho! Hi ho! It’s to the dump we go!
Next, a couple of coats of good floor paint were applied to the massively stained (mouse stuff, oil from generators, you name it) shed floor. Then, on to the next area on the list.
As the Sands of Time processed the next few Days of Our Lives, one thing became clear: The 40 cubic yard container was not going to be too much bin for the money. Not at all. The 30 yard container simply would not have been enough.
Friday afternoon was both bad and good. It was bad in the sense that I got exactly nothing done on the spring cleaning “deep cleaning” project–for two reasons: One, by noon my back was going into spasm with every step I took. Yeah, I’ll be seeing my favorite chiropractor pretty soon, but not on a weekend. So I was moving rather slowly and carefully…when a pickup truck pulled up and parked.
We never get visitors.
The driver turned out to be Robin, a close neighbor (half a mile or so down the trail), who needed help. We knew Robin–soon to be 63 years old, a trainer of draft horses, and a widow, two inches shorter and ten pounds lighter than my miniscule redheaded Pam, an overall remarkable Soul. Hadn’t seen her in years. She owns homes in other areas; this was never her one-and-only residence. But now she needed to have her ailing motor home towed out from the homestead. However, monsoon rains had, since she’d last checked on the place, cut what she called a “ravine” down part of the road she needed the motor home to use.
Okay, when I think “ravine,” I’m picturing something big enough to ride a horse through, but I doubted that was literally what she had. Maybe a mini-ravine? Anyway, she’d spotted the Kubota tractor/loader/backhoe in our driveway, and…pretty please?
The cut turned out to be relatively minor. About 30 feet needed to be filled in, but most of it was no more than a foot or two deep and not very wide–although certainly enough to trap a motor home trying to get out. The Kubota and I went to work.
Forty-five minutes into the job, I was nearly done–woops! Flat tire! Right front. At least it wasn’t one of the big rear tires. So (Robin having left the scene on necessary errands, including picking up some more diesel for my tractor), hike back to the Border Fort, drive to Robin’s, get the tire off, head to town. Furrier’s fixed the tire for $15 flat charge, and why did it go flat? Um…operator error, actually. I’d casually run over a small bush, and the bush must have fought back–because the metal valve stem was bent and had to be replaced. Still, one sandwich on the go and a hustle back to the job, and we were in business. Finished the task by the tractor’s headlights, drove it home, hiked back to get the truck, and all done by 8:00 p.m.
Which is a better excuse for not getting any spring cleaning done than “the dog ate my homework.”
Bonus: Operating the Kubota helped my back. Not all the way, but I could function again. Woo hoo!
The final cleanup? That would be the massive pile of scrap lumber between Shed B and Shed C. Everything else was out of the way by early Saturday afternoon, but this pile would take a while. It involved using both the pickup truck and a wheelbarrow, the smaller pieces going into the wheelbarrow while the bigger ones were loaded into the truck. Back and forth, dumpster to pile, pile to dumpster.
Until…I’d gotten into my zone, really hadn’t realized I’d made it through about two thirds of the total pile…when all of a sudden there was a desert cottontail bunny wabbit moving around on the junk lumber pile. Whoa. It was obviously one that knew me; her ears stayed up as she hopped slowly here and there, sniffing, considering, checking me out. She left at one point, but the next time I came back, she’d returned, same thing.
And I realized two things: The last board I’d pulled from the pile had exposed an edge of nesting material that looked like it was primarily made up of…rabbit fur. Thankfully, I hadn’t exposed any infant bunnies, but if I continued removing boards, that would happen. There was simply no other motivation powerful enough to keep a wild rabbit returning to confront a human, time after time. It was like she was saying, “Look, I know you’re the carrot dude, but what are you doing to my fortress habitat here? Knock it off, please!”
So I did. End of spring cleaning. The remaining pile of “bunny cover” is not that unsightly anyway, tucked well back out of sight from most angles on the homestead.
The idea that a lady bunny wabbit might choose to make her nest high up in a pile of scrap lumber…that simply never occurred to me. This one has done so, though; there can be no doubt. Wow. Next thing, we’ll be finding a bunch of bunnies nesting high up in a tree! A remarkable Soul, our woodpile friend, thinking far outside the tunnel-under box known to desert cottontails everywhere.
Her timing was exquisite, too. It was nearly sunset when she appeared. Had she not done so, I would have kept on slogging until the light was gone and, most likely, until I’d worked myself too hard for my own good.
Sunday, March 19, 2017. Pam will be home late this evening. I called Zach around 12:30 p.m.; he reported that they were “just getting ready to leave Page (Arizona).” I took that to mean they’d stopped there at a motel for the night, which is a good thing. Even better, Pam announced–presumably from the shotgun seat…something I couldn’t quite make out.
“What did she say?” I asked Zach. “Sounded like muh-cheesy pie!”
When he got done laughing, Zach explained: “She says this (his Toyota) is a much easier ride (than my truck).”
Meanwhile, how much of the dumpster got filled? Certainly most of it. There really wasn’t any wasted money with this big boy.
Bottom line, Pam and I qualify as good ol’ American clutter collectors in the classic sense. Happily, though, getting rid of clutter is also one of my great joys in life. Now all I need to do is figure out how to trigger that “deep cleaning” spring cleaning motivation without needing an upcoming move to spur me in the flanks.