About a month ago, a friend on another list mistakenly sent a post
intended for her local (California) FreeCycle list to our writing list
instead. I had investigated FreeCycle a year or so ago myself, but since
the closest local branch was then in Swindon (an hours drive away) I
didn't follow it up any further.
On reading my friend's post, however, I was prompted to investigate
again, and discovered that there is now a very local (Newbury) branch -
since when, I have been having a wonderful time passing on items that
are of no use to me, not much monetary value to anyone else, and would
otherwise have ended up in the local land fill.
So far, I have passed on an aquarium, a rabbit hutch, a knitting machine, three dolls houses
& children's toys and am just awaiting the collection of a rowing
machine and on old sewing machine - all going to people who can make use
of them instead of them gathering dust and cluttering up the house.
I also acquired a couple of items - a lovely old desk which now resides
in the summerhouse, and a couple of tables which have been given a good
home in the studio - one persons trash is definitely another person's
treasure in this organisation - why not check out your local FreeCycle
branch yourself and become part of the whole wonderful network of
On another note - I read this poem from this morning's daily email
posting of Garrison Keiller's excellent "Writer's Almanac" and thought
of my heroic friend Carolyn at TumbleweedandThyme. I'll leave you to
read the full story on Carolyn's blog of the events which b efell
Carolyn's dear husband Arnie and the changes it brought to all their
lives - but once you have read their story, you will understand why this
poem held such meaning for me.
This one is for Josh and Arnie, Carolyn....
Poem: "The Friday Night Fights" by Ronald Wallace, from Long for This
World: New and Selected Poems. (c) University of Pittsburgh Press, 2003.
The Friday Night Fights
Every Friday night we watched the fights.
Me, ten years old and stretched out on the couch;
my father, in his wheelchair, looking on
as Rocky Marciano, Sonny Liston, Floyd Patterson
fought and won the battles we could not.
Him, twenty-nine, and beat up with disease;
me, counting God among my enemies
for what he'd done to us. We never touched.
But in between the rounds we'd sing how we'd
Look sharp! Feel sharp! Be sharp! With Gillette
And Howard Cosell, the Bela Lugosi of boxing.
Out in the kitchen, my mother never understood
our need for blood, how this was as close as we'd get
to love-bobbing and weaving, feinting and sparring.