Our garage, much like the garages of most folks I suspect, is a catch-all for all manner of accumulated possessions, tools, gadgets, toys, cast-offs and what not. Comfortably ensconced atop a rickety shelving unit is a turtle planter (waiting for weather conditions ripe enough to allow me to fill it with dirt, flowers, sunshine, hope and love), a garden tchotchke (one of three that I purchased at Earl May a few years ago, each resembling a kind of robotic woodland creature) tucked away in the upper right corner of the frame and my trusty, grass-stained mowing shoes: New Balance #381.
Trash Amnesty, that much anticipated rite of spring cleaning, is our cue to dig a little deeper to see what else is lurking in the shadows of our garage (and other dark, hidden spaces) so that we might create additional space for yet more stuff to fill the void (of our lives?).
My mowing shoes, however, will stay right where they are: Ready to spring into action whenever the lawn needs trimming.