So, I was driving down Flint Hill Road in my pick-up truck, sweaty and dirty from milking the goats, when I spotted this old metal glider in front of someones house with a plywood sign that said "FREE" on it. You know I stopped, right?
Now, I'm 52 years old and no athlete. Thank goodness I was pumped up from goat-wrestling, because I hefted that green monster into the back of my truck all by my lonesome. It came with two big, flat cushions that seemed solid enough to stay put, so once I had it wedged firmly into the soil and other debris in the back of my truck, I headed on down the road.
It's a sickness, this urge of mine to rescue junk; but in this case, the junk in question was a much coveted piece, one I had envisioned placing under the deck in the shade. I have wanted a place to nap outdoors ever since I left Easton 10 years ago. I had a similar glider then, one that was given to me by my neighbor. I spent many lazy afternoons asleep on that glider, and I missed the experience. It was a no-brainer. It needed to come home with me.
So, there I was, doing my very best "Sanford and Son" imitation, tooling down the highway at a conservative 40 mph, when the top cushion blew off. Onto the fast lane of a divided highway. In the rain.
A mile and a U-turn later, you could find me running across said highway, running up the teensy little non-shoulder margin next to the barriers, looking for the exact spot the cushion landed. Traffic was whipping past, and I was envisioning my obituary: "Local woman becomes road kill while salvaging junk". Like I said, it's a sickness. I glanced up when I got to the approximate spot and saw a police car go by. Uh-oh; I grabbed that baby, ran back to the truck and shoved it into the passenger seat. I high-tailed it out of there just in time; after I pulled into a dead-end cul-de-sac, I saw him drive slowly up the stretch of road I had just occupied.
Now, you might think I'm being overly dramatic when I tell you that this was an epic adventure, but I'm not quite finished yet. As I turned the corner into the alley behind our home, I heard the most awful automotive sound imaginable. I looked around to see who the poor schmuck was with the lousy car, only to find out that it was me. The truck was absolutely screaming. I parked it behind the house and ran inside for Peter, who determined it was "a belt". We haven't determined which belt yet, but that's a story for another day. I had my glider. That belt held out until I got it home.
Two hours later, after moving a stack of tires filled with soil, two retro metal lawn chairs and a potting bench, and spending $113 on three new cushions (remember how hard I worked to retrieve the old one from the highway? BIG mistake!), Peter and I enjoyed a pretty sunset together from the new cozy corner. We watched a Netflix movie on my computer in the dark, sharing a set of ear-buds, eating popcorn for dinner. It was heavenly. I had my first nap out there, with my feet in his lap. Perfection. Sanford and Son had it right.
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