Clutter Doctor

I am married to a hopeless garage sale fanatic. I finally gave in and decided I had to join him if I couldn't beat him. So, years ago, I started a business, Clutter Busters, which did quite well when we lived in NJ.  

Back then, in the 80s, the beauty of Clutter Busters was that no one knew the value of what they had. There were no informative shows on television like "Auction Kings," "Storage Wars," "Pawn Stars," or "American Pickers" (yes, we watch them all). We charged people $75.00 a truckload to haul their valuables away. Then, Bill and his buddy, Charlie, would sell the stuff for next to nothing at the flea market (we needed to know the value of what we had too). It really was a great business as it was almost always pure profit.  

Eventually, we had two trucks on the road - I drove one, and Bill drove the other. Jennifer, our oldest child, often accompanied me to the dump - riding shotgun in her car seat. She would have been less than a year old at the time. Some mother I am! We even expanded Clutter Busters to include gutter cleaning until Charlie fell off the ladder and broke his wrist in 10 places, but that is another story.  

Bill and I reached a crossroads with Clutter Busters - I wanted to expand the business further by renting a warehouse and doing auctions. He thought I was nuts. In short, we argued, Bill won, and we moved to Florida when he got a teaching job. 

Fast forward 24 years.  

Now, we have all those television shows, and everyone knows exactly what they have. It's made finding the fantastic items we used to come across all the time harder. When we see something valuable, the people selling it think they can get the retail price. It's a brutal world out there for the avid garage saler. You really have to know your stuff.  

It took me years to forgive Bill for not believing in my vision for Clutter Busters - about 24, to be exact. I frequently dream of where we would be today had we franchised, but I'm getting ahead of myself. So, I finally gave in again and joined him in the quest for the holy grail of rusty, dusty gold. There really is something to be said for the high you get when you find out the magnet you bought for fifty cents is worth $120.00. Of course, I wasn't content to go out to garage sales; I had to start a business. The name Clutter Busters was already taken here in Florida, so we are now Clutter Doctor. Our motto is: Got clutter? Don't just put a band-aid on it - call the Doctor!

It's funny how life seems to come full circle. When we started Clutter Busters, we had a little Ford Ranger that we beat into the ground. We now have a Chevy S10 that is as beat up as our Ford. In fact, just recently, our truck had a near-death experience.

Bill and I were on our way home from selling goods in a small antique town, Arcadia. We loaded the truck with items we didn't sell and pulled a trailer with some bigger things. As we were driving down Interstate 75, I kept smelling something strange.  

"Do you smell that?" I yelled to Bill over the rush of wind coming in my open window (we don't have A/C in the truck, and Bill's driver's side window doesn't open).  

"What?" He yelled back at me. 

"Do you smell that?" I screamed louder.

"What's that smell?" He yelled back at me. 

"I don't know," I said as my feet started to feel strangely warm. "My feet are hot."

"I can think of other things besides your feet that are hot." He smiled wickedly at me.

"No, honey!" I began to panic now, "My feet are really hot!"

"What?" He yelled back at me as I bent over, feeling the cab floor.  

"The floor's hot, and something smells like it's burning." I began furiously looking for the source of the problem.

Nothing in the cab was on fire. The hood of the truck wasn't smoking. I looked behind me.

"Oh, my God!!" I screamed, "Bill, pull over the truck's on fire!"

Now, I have to add a side note to this story. If anyone has ever traveled Interstate 75, they know that hundreds of cars fly down that road at 75+ MPH and ride up each other's tails, switching lanes like they're on the Indianapolis Speedway. This day was no different. Why didn't anyone honk or attempt to alert us that we were driving a flamethrower down the highway?  

I called my daughter, Jennifer, because we were supposed to meet the family and some friends for camping. "Jen, we're going to be late. The truck's on fire. I have to go and call 911. I'll call you back in a few minutes."

I was frantically dialing 911 as Bill pulled off the road.  

"911, what is your emergen...." The phone died.  

"The phone died!" I yelled to Bill, who was wrestling with the flaming tarp.  

"I'm not going to die." He yelled back.  

"Forget it!" I screamed over the traffic as a lovely lady stopped to see if we needed help. 

"The truck is on fire," I said as if she didn't already know this. "My phone is dead."

 "I called 911." She said as she handed me the phone.

"Our truck is on fire," I yelled at the 911 operator.  

"What is your location?" she asked calmly.

"We're on 75 southbound, but I don't know exactly where." I looked at the lady who shrugged her shoulders in an "I don't know either" manner.  

"Bill, where are we?"  

"On 75!" He yelled back to me as he stomped the tarp that was now on the ground.  

Flames were still shooting up between the cab and the truck bed. 

"I know we're on 75, but where?" "Get away from the truck before it blows up!"  

"Mam, what was the last thing you remember passing on 75?" I heard the operator asking.  

"A sign for Cracker Barrel."  

"Well, that narrows it down!" I heard the operator getting snippy with me.

"Listen, we got on 75 around Arcadia and probably traveled about 15 miles. I didn't pay attention to the last mile marker." I handed the phone back to the lady and went to help Bill.

He was still stomping on the tarp when I noticed the flames in the truck's center just suddenly went out.  

"The flames are gone," I said as Bill stomped out the last cinder on the tarp.  

"I know," he said, "I just stomped it out."

"No, the truck isn't burning anymore," I said in disbelief.  

Sure enough, the truck was just sitting there looking like a regular truck - not a flame in sight. Shortly after, the fire trucks and police cars came blaring down the highway right past us. They had to turn around and return after the lady whose cell phone I was still holding flagged them down.  

A fireman dressed in full gear jumped out of the truck, grabbed the hose, and ran to the truck while the police directed traffic down to a slow one-lane crawl.  

"Where's the fire?" Another fireman asked.

"I don't know." I said, "It was here a minute ago." I pointed to the charred grass beside our mortally wounded tarp lying on the ground. "The truck was burning, but it just suddenly went out."

The fireman eyed me suspiciously. He went over to inspect the truck and observed the charred back window. He looked the truck over from top to bottom, shrugged his shoulders, and informed us that he figured it was okay to drive, but he said the fire truck would follow us for a bit to ensure no new flames appeared.  

"You were very lucky." He told us. "The fire was really close to your gas tank. Something must have fallen between the cab and the bed and rested on the muffler. That's what caught fire. The flames from that caught your tarp on fire."

We thanked the lovely phone lady, the firemen, and the police and climbed into the truck. I was shaky as we started down the road and did more than a few double-takes over my shoulder, but we made it home without further incident.  

As soon as we got home, I called Jen, who had no idea if we were dead or alive and was ready to send a posse out looking for us. I assured her we were okay and would come to the campground shortly.  

Our truck still bears the fire scars with permanent black streaks on the back window and truck bed - but I think it adds a touch of character to the old girl. Looking back, I realize we were so lucky to have survived this incident relatively unscathed - and I genuinely thank God for that. Then, there are times when I think about all our antics, and I wonder if I was psychic in choosing the name "Clutter Doctor" for the business because Bill and I need to have our heads examined!