The Junk Man Cometh

Harold, the junk man, came up from Plymouth yesterday to pick up some more stuff from around the house and barn.  He's been here before.  He thinks he's found the mother lode.  Steve was a world-class scrounge...yard sales were full of treasures, and free was even better.  He would scan roadside trash for the gems only he would consider.  I never knew what would be at the end of the sentence when he'd say, "I got you something."  He once gave me sixteen garage doors.  What woman wouldn't be thrilled?  (He used them to build a garden shed, complete with porch and skylight.)  I had four rototillers, one of which actually works.  Harold took one, so I'm down to three.  I don't rototill.  Somebody gave Steve (oh joy!) an old boat and trailer.  The seats were put up in the barn, and the mice made nests in each one, so I pitched them at some point in time.  I've been filling the boat with trash, intending to take the whole thing to the dump and leaving it.  Harold's eyes lit up when he saw it.  Like Steve, he sees possibilities.  He's going to think about it.  Harold could be my new best friend.