The empty area behind my house doesn't really belong to
anyone. Like many other things that are everyone's
responsibility, it winds up as nobody's responsibility. In
fact, it winds up full of junk. A jerry can, fallen
clothespins and a sponja shmatte are among the more
readily identifiable items, but they're joined by many
assorted bits of unknown — well, stuff — that no
one wants but someone has tossed there. Since this eyesore is
right behind my house, and I'm the one who has to look at, I
clean it up every so often. Or not so often. But I always
plan to do it. In fact, I'll get to it soon — I really
will.
In the past, I've taken my kids and a few industrial-size
garbage bags, and we've spent a surprisingly enjoyable hour
or so picking up all the accumulated debris. When we're done,
we usually have one small bag of clothespins and a few other
items that our youngest had tossed off the balcony (menschies
are the current favorite), in addition to all the rest.
We wend our way to the huge green dumpster and each of us
heaves in a large bagful of junk. Disposable plates, empty
cans, inner tubes and other bicycle parts, once a rusty
radiator — you name it, we've found it. The dumpster
opens its mouth wide, wide, and graciously accepts our
offerings. We gleefully toss in the bags, glad to have them
gone. For a while we enjoy the view behind our home, until
the mess slowly but inexorably creeps up on us again.
The local Lost-and-Found is another beneficiary of our
cleanup spree largesse. "I see you've been behind the
buildings again," Shoshana the Lost-and-Found Lady sighs.
"No, broken pencils are not considered an aveidah, I'm
afraid."
"I know," I hurry to reassure her. "But look at this." I try
to pique her interest. "An alarm clock, and it's still
ticking. The case is a little cracked in the corner, but it
still works."
Shoshana peers at the object I proffer, rising to the bait. I
knew she would. So would I, if I were her. In fact, that's
really why I'm here, delivering the found items myself
instead of sending a kid to run this small errand.
It's nice to take a break for a few minutes from our busy
schedules, from cooking and cleaning, to talk to someone over
the age of five, someone who doesn't think I should know
where her blouse is and why it hasn't been washed or ironed.
(Because you left it under the bed instead of putting it
where it belongs. Did you expect it would magically make its
way to the hamper itself?)
We chat, Shoshana and I. We agree on how nice this time of
year is, not too hot but not yet into the serious winter
storms. We update each other on how the kids are doing in
school, if they get along with their teachers, what we can do
about it. She gives me a tip on how to organize my junk
drawer ("Get rid of half the stuff"). We commiserate with
each other that our extended families live so far away,
daydream about how we'd like to see them more often. We laugh
over how our memories seem to fail us nowadays; we're no
longer the youngsters we once were, after all.
I leave Shoshana's house, having dropped off my little bundle
of found items. I feel accomplished — we do, after all,
have tangible results to show for our afternoon's work, which
is not always the case in our chosen field of motherhood. I
also find myself more lighthearted, quicker to smile at my
hungry and sometimes kvetchy brood.
I guess I've dropped off some of my cares and worries at
Shoshana's — and I hope she's dropped some of hers as
well. And it's so nice to stand on my back porch and see
natural things like rocks and dirt and weeds, and even an
occasional flower. Modest as it is, I'd certainly rather see
that than the toilet paper rolls that the upstairs neighbor's
four- year-old tossed out the window (again!) to see the
paper fly, and the assorted other junk that has somehow
migrated to our little space.
Maybe I'll clean up behind the house again soon. Who knows,
maybe I'll find some of my own aveidos.
Maybe I'll do it today.
