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!

Me

Snippets and Tales came to be when I had a conversation with my friend Karen about my writing and she suggested that I start a blog.  I had no idea how to start a blog, but I was fairly internet savvy, so I figured it out pretty quickly and launched Snippets and Tales in February, 2011.  I have to say that I was scared at first because I really didn’t think anyone would want to read my stories.  

The first few months when I would read my stats, it was usually under 20 readers a month from the US.  I was happy with 20 readers, but then I started seeing readers from Denmark, Netherlands, UK, Bangladesh, India, Sweden, Singapore and even Latvia (a small country located between Estonia and Lithuania).   Since then, I have posted over 60 stories on the blog and have over 5,000 readers from over 20 countries.  

Yesterday, I was talking to Karen and telling her about all the readers I now have.  For instance, I have 219 readers in Sweden but I don’t know how or why they ended up on my site.  I feel blessed that so many people find my stories interesting enough that they keep coming back to read them and must be passing them on to others.  

Anyway, I was telling Karen that I would like to know about these people reading my stories when she suggested that they might like to know about me.  

“What are you talking about, Karen?” I said through the phone, “Aren’t I telling them about me throughout all the snippets I’m posting?”  

“Yes,” she replied, “you are telling them in a roundabout way, but you aren’t telling them who you really are.  You’re not telling them about all your struggles.”  

I listened to my best friend in the whole world (who had the audacity to up and leave me for Texas) when she told me to start the blog, but I wasn’t so sure I should listen to her now.  

“Who wants to hear about my struggles!” I yelled into the phone.  

“They just might want to know YOU.”  She yelled back.  “You want to know your readers.  Why wouldn’t your readers want to know you!”

Karen has this way of seeing through me and getting right to the point.  She certainly knows what I have been dealing with over the years and she might be right.  I’ve been thinking about what she said for two days now and I guess maybe she is right.  Maybe my readers do want to know who I am and what I do.  Maybe they want to know what my struggles are.  

So, I’m taking Karen’s advice.  I’m going to introduce my readers to me which may take a while as I am a very complex person.  Not really.  Truth is, I’m just me.  I live on a farm with my husband and two daughters; one in middle school, the other in college.  I have two children with their own families and one young lady from Bangladesh that I consider a daughter who is also in college.  

My last “career” job was as a special education teacher two years ago.  I’ve been involved with special education it seems my entire life - at least since high school when I was a volunteer in a special education class.  Since high school, I’ve managed group homes for special needs individuals and taught for 18+ years.  Two years ago I made the difficult decision to leave my job and go on medical leave while applying for disability.  It’s been a tough row to hoe since then.  I guess this is what Karen was talking about - telling my story since I’ve been on medical leave.  So, I’ll try.

The worst thing in the world (at least for me) was to think of myself as “disabled”.  Growing up, I was an athlete.  After high school, I rode my bike 1600 miles through Ireland, Scotland, Wales and England.  In my twenties I rode my bike 600 miles through Cape Cod.  I’ve always been an avid tennis player and coach.  I also played racquet ball.  In fact, my first date with Bill was on a racquet ball court. 

Nineteen years ago my life began to change.  That is when I had a stroke.  Of course, someone my age having a stroke was unusual and finding the culprit was not an easy task.  Finally, after many many years of doctor after doctor, I was diagnosed with Antiphospholipid Antibody Syndrome.  In short, my blood was too thick so I went on blood thinners and have been on them ever since.  Slowly, as the years progressed, I became less and less able to do the active things I loved.  

I gave up coaching tennis.  Eventually, I had to give up playing league tennis too due to severe arthritis in my knees. I no longer could ride my bike any great distance.  I couldn’t play racquet ball anymore either.  Now, when I’m able, I play senior “mini tennis” which is about all I can handle.  

My memory was greatly affected from the stroke and I had difficulty remembering people’s names and faces.  I had whole sections of my life wiped out. I had to stop teaching because I could not physically do it any longer. I had extreme difficulty remembering  the names of my students and the kids on my tennis team.  I couldn’t remember my colleague’s names either.  One time, I had a meeting with some parents and realized an hour into the meeting that I was talking about the wrong student!  The pressure of trying to remember everyone was exhausting not to mention the physical problems I was experiencing.

Now, I battle constant stomach problems and other issues that prevent me from returning to teaching.  Sometimes I get in my car and forget where I’m supposed to be going. I have good days and bad days.  I thank God for the good days and sometimes curse him for the bad days.  I wonder why I have these struggles - what God has planned for my life.  It certainly wasn’t what I THOUGHT He had planned for my life!

I got to the point where the only thing I could do on a regular basis was write.  So, that is why my blog exists.  I felt that maybe God was telling me to write and, in order for me to listen, He had to literally knock me off my feet.  Well, I’ve gotten to the point where all distractions are gone and I’m wondering what’s next?

I’ve been denied disability twice.  My family has struggled financially and my marriage has struggled because Bill and I were so active together - playing tennis etc.  Sometimes I can be sitting right next to him and feel like we are miles apart.  I know every marriage experiences this now and then.  Lately, it seems it’s more now than then.  Yet, I keep plugging along and keep praying and keep writing.  

I have always tried to be upbeat and optimistic in my writing.  I have always tried to stay true to who I am.  Mostly, I have tried to make my readers laugh.   Sometimes I imagine they might cry.  That’s okay too.  Basically, I try to portray life as I see it.  My solemn  prayer is that whatever I write will be something that someone somewhere out there needed to read at that moment in their life.  I don’t know where my stories go.  I just know that I have to keep sending them out there because it is all I can do now.  

Keeping up with the Hendersons

I think our family should have a reality show.  I’d title it: Hey Kardashians - keep up with us!  I’ve never watched the show, but I bet they never drove a burning truck down the interstate (oblivious to the fact that it was burning).  I bet they never got chased by a herd of cattle, milked a goat or drove a car without its key.  

I wonder if Kim Kardashian ever had to feed thirteen children.  I wonder if she ever had to deal with thirteen children with lice!  I don’t think that Kim has ever stood at the bedside of a child going through reconstructive surgery.  I wonder how she would handle sleeping in a hospital chair for days on end. 

Have the Kardashians ever taken a family vacation in the middle of winter in a truck with a broken back window?  

Honestly, our family is much more “real” than a group of models!  How many people can relate to the Kardashians and their fancy lifestyle?  Let’s face it, there are very few people out there who would star in a sex tape or pose nude for PETA, but I bet most people can relate to overflowing toilets and weekend garage sales to help pay the bills.  

I get it, though.  People watch the Kardashians to escape their own humdrum lives.  I guess I’ll just have to settle for writing about my family - although I wouldn’t trade places with the Kardashians; Not even for 40 million.  

Okay, I lied.  I would trade places as long as I could bring my family along and the Kardashians would have to live my lifestyle.  Could you see Kim Kardashian feeding the chickens or sifting worms?  How about Kim riding the three wheel trike down to the CVS and the Dollar General or mowing the pasture on the tractor?  I would love to see her trudge through the hundred acre field with Paola looking for clues in cow pies.  Now that would be worth watching!  

Over the past six months we’ve had a fire in our house and in our truck.  We’ve lost our investment home in Tennessee because of deadbeat tenants.  I’ve been on medical leave from my job for two years so, we have had to drop our health insurance because we just cannot afford it.  The people that were boarding their horses on our farm stopped paying us.  We learned that Paola cannot get a Social Security number until we apply for citizenship for her which is going to cost us $600.00.  It seems we’ve had one tragedy after another, but I still wouldn’t trade my life for the Kardashians.  

You see, unlike the Kardashians, we live in the real world.  We have real problems that most people can relate to, but we also have real family and friends and faith that gets us through those problems.  So, although we do not have a 40 million dollar contract for another season, I pray that God will bless us with many more seasons.  Most importantly, I thank God that we have each other because that is priceless!

Johnny on the Spot

I was at my daughter’s tennis match yesterday when I suddenly felt my stomach churning.  I made my way over to the bathrooms and found that they were locked up because it was after school hours.  As I returned to the courts, the stomach churning turned into stomach cramps and I knew that I had to find a bathroom very soon.  Then I saw it; a portable toilet looming in the distance.  

I had no choice.  I squeezed my butt cheeks and tried to walk naturally toward the port-a-pot at a rate of speed that would not cause any alarm.  You might wonder how does one walk “normally” while squeezing butt cheeks together.  It is quite difficult to accomplish this task.  You have to first put your hands in your pockets because it looks more natural that way.  Then, you take baby steps while crossing your feet (one in front of the other) and sort of swing your hips from side to side allowing the butt cheeks to remain squeezed.  I’d say it sort of resembles the way a runway model would walk, however it might not have the same “style” that a runway model would exude.  

So here I am at the tennis courts surrounded by people I know because I either taught with them, played tennis with them or coached their kids in tennis.  It was bound to happen.  As I was frantically attempting to reach the port-a-potty without calling attention to myself, I heard a familiar voice yell out, “Hey, Betty!”  

I tried to turn toward the voice while keeping the butt cheeks squeezed without falling on my face.  I couldn’t accomplish this task, so I just turned my head in her direction.  I must have looked a bit spastic as I stood my ground and attempted to the crane my neck toward the voice which belonged to Molly who I used to play tennis with.  

“Hey, Molly.”  I yelled over my shoulder, “How the heck are you?”

She meandered over to me and I had to tell her the truth.  I explained that I could not talk right now because I had to use the port-a-potty.   She took in my stance and immediately recognized the symptoms - although she mistook my stance for a weak bladder problem (which I also have).  Anyway, Molly wished me luck and moved aside to allow me to continue my hellish walk.  

Luckily, I was not interrupted by anyone else and I actually made it to the port-a-potty without further incident.  I opened the door and was greeted by dizzying fumes which almost caused me to pass out.  I had to enter, though, because not entering would be a worse fate.  I closed and locked the door saying a silent prayer that I would not get stuck in this ghastly john.

I opened the lid and a swarm of mosquitos flew from the depths of human waste.  I gagged and almost puked.  My stomach reminded me that I was about to explode from both ends so I quickly sat on the awful throne.  I was contemplating how I could puke between my legs since I couldn’t reach the urinal when I felt the mosquitos bitting my butt.  I vowed right then and there that I would not puke.  Thankfully I didn’t.  

I sat there for at least 10 minutes hoping beyond hope that this would be my one and only visit.  I emerged from the port-a-potty with a new appreciation for my indoor plumbing and extra high toilet seat.  I made my way over to watch my daughter play and was relieved that it appeared my stomach cramps had dissipated.  My daughter was just about finished with her match when I felt it again.  Only, this time I had to run to the john.  More mosquitos met me and, sadly, I had to stay longer which meant more mosquito bites.

This time when I came out into the sunlight, I quickly grabbed my nearest daughter, Jennifer, and told her to get me to her house right away.  Both my older daughters  were watching the match and Jennifer just happened to live not far from the courts.  I threw my car keys to my other daughter, Katie, and told her to take the car home.  

“Tell your dad to pick me up at Jennifer’s.”  I yelled to Katie as I ran like a bat out of hell to Jen’s car.  

“Drive as fast as you can!”  I instructed Jennifer while I grasped white-knuckled onto her dashboard.  

“Mom,” she informed me “we might hit some red lights on the way.”  

“Ignore them!”  I spat back through clenched teeth.

“Do you want me to take you to a gas station?”  She asked innocently.

I turned on her.  “Jennifer, just get me to your house.  I don’t care how you get there.  I don’t care what laws you break.  I don’t care how fast you drive.  Do you understand me!” 

She handed me a cup and told me to use it if I had to.  At one point, she took a turn so fast I thought we were going to be up on two wheels.  We made it to her house and she pressed the garage door opener - nothing happened.  I screamed at her to try the damn thing again.  

“Mom, I have a key to the front door.”  She said.

“I won’t make it to the front door!”  I yelled.

The opener worked.  I jumped out of the car and started to run, legs crossed, into the house.  Jen started laughing hysterically because her neighbor across the street was watching me.  I’m sure I looked like a running version of the Hunchback of Notre-Dame.  I didn’t care.  To say that I made it with not a minute to spare is an understatement.  I had not a second to spare.  

I stayed at Jen’s for another hour making periodic trips to her bathroom and thanking God  that there was a bathroom to make a trip to.  Today, I counted twelve mosquito bites on my cheeks - not too bad really when you consider it could have been much worse.  After all, I was wearing white shorts!

Happy Hour

Why is “happy hour” only one hour long?  Is it because we humans are a fickle group with a short “happiness” lifespan?  While pondering these questions I examined a day in my own life.  I usually start my day packing my daughter’s lunch while I discuss all the things I have to accomplish throughout the day with my husband.  Does that make me happy?  Not really.  Kissing my husband goodbye makes me happy - lasts about three seconds.  My daughter won’t let me kiss her goodbye and that makes me sad for about three minutes until I make my coffee.

Making my coffee is completely frustrating because my stupid coffee maker keeps shutting off.  I have to stand in front of it, wait for the “on” light to go off and bang on the top of it until the “on” light comes back on.  This frustration lasts at least 5 - 10 minutes and it does not make me happy.  Drinking my coffee makes me happy until I discover all the ants floating on the top of my coffee because I use honey to sweeten the coffee and the ants were on the honey bottle!  I drink the damn coffee anyway because I don’t want to make more coffee in my terminally ill coffee maker.  Drinking ants makes me angry and erases my happiness in about two seconds.

Writing makes me happy.  I usually try to write while I’m drinking my coffee.  Sometimes I get to write for a whole hour without interruption, but that is a rare occurrence.  More often than not, the phone rings or someone appears at my door.  When that happens, I lose my train of thought and usually throw away whatever I was writing which makes me sad.  So, before I’ve even eaten breakfast I have experienced a myriad of emotions with “happiness” coming in last place.  

As the day wears on, I find myself behind the wheel of my car where my frustration and road rage emotions kick into high gear.  There are times when I find myself screaming and cursing at other drivers.  Now, as I look back on my behavior, I wonder why I do this?  Do the other drivers hear me?  Is it going to change their driving behavior?  Does all this yelling make me feel better?  Does it make me happy?  No.

I usually spend at least half of my day packing and shipping our sold ebay items while I watch the news.  Watching the news makes me crazy.  I scream at the TV over the idiocy of some politician or I cry over the daily tragedy (which seems to dominate the news).  

Cleaning the house and washing clothes does not make me happy.  Feeding my chickens makes me happy.  Cooking dinner makes me happy.  Eating dinner with my family makes me happy.  Doing the dishes after dinner does not.

There is something I’ve discovered as I’ve been writing this little snippet on happiness: I make choices every day that affect my happiness quotient.   For instance, I chose to view mundane tasks as mundane.  What if I looked at them as opportunities to reach inside and find the joy in the task.  Is there joy in laundry?  I wonder? 

I just tried an experiment; I put a load of clothes in the wash and, as I put my daughter’s tennis skirt in the machine, I pictured her on the court playing her first match.  That thought brought joy to my heart.  

Fast forward to wrapping and shipping ebay packages: I thought about Bill and I scouring flea markets and garage sales for items to sell and that brought joy to my heart.  

Driving is still a challenge for me, but, I bet if I think of the time when I had a stroke and could not drive for a while, then maybe I can find the joy in having the ability to drive again.

You see, joy is different than happiness isn’t it?  “Happy hour” does only last for an hour, or maybe less.  Joy, however, comes from deep inside of us.  It is always there if we choose to find it.  I believe that Joy comes from God and happiness is the devil’s tool.  We are always “seeking” happiness.  It’s even in our Declaration of Independence - life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  

Some people pursue “happiness” in a bottle of rum, on an exotic beach or in a fat bank account.  They might find it for a short time, but it will go away.  Joy stays with us always.  It’s in our core, our soul.  

Today, I’ve made a pledge to myself that I will purposefully acknowledge the joy in all that I do. I know that if I do that, I will find peace that surpasses all understanding and I know that peace is manifest joy.  What will you do?

Are Ewe Kidding Me! (part two)

Author’s note:  These little “snippets” are for my nieces and nephews who are learning about homonyms.  

My Aunt Ann had two ewes.  Do you have two ewes too?  As I’ve told you, I had a ewe that liked to eat thyme all the time.  Well, my aunt’s ewes ate ants!  You know what I say about ewes that eat ants - “Ew!”

Anyway, my Aunt Ann’s ewes ate a whole lot more than eight ants.  In fact, my Aunt Ann said to my Uncle Hugh, “Hugh, we can use these ewes to eat all the ants in our yard.”

Well, the ewes ate so many ants that they made at least eight holes in the yard. In fact, there were a whole lot more than eight holes in their yard!  

My Aunt Ann kept falling in the holes (and so did my Uncle Hugh) so, the ewes were put up for sale.  My uncle Hugh sold the ewes to a bald man with an ant problem.  My aunt bawled because she didn’t want the bald man with the ant problem to buy the ewes.  

Aunt Ann really didn’t want to say goodbye to her two ewes that ate ants, so she said to Uncle Hugh, “You be the seller!”  

Then, Aunt Ann went inside and bawled in her cellar.  

As the bald man handed Uncle Hugh a few more cents, Uncle Hugh yelled to my bawling Aunt Ann, “Selling the ewes makes perfect sense.” 

So, my bawling aunt’s ewes, that ate more than eight ants, went to live with the bald man that had the ant problem.  

However, my dear Uncle Hugh loved Aunt Ann so much that he asked her, “Ann, would you like an ox or perhaps an anteater?”  

Instead, my dear Uncle Hugh bought Aunt Ann a deer.  Then, Aunt Ann was happy for about four days until they had to sell the deer because it was eating the yew tree - but that is another story!