I sat in the chair; it was comfortable and it bent, twisted and stretched to form a very restful place to sit and relax.
However, I really didn’t want the chair.
My son was on his way to the dump in his truck loaded with rubbish; the chair was tied on top of the rubbish. It was my wife who decided to take the chair. My son carefully removed it from the rest of the rubbish and carefully sat it on our driveway.
Our garage was full of other chairs and we hardly had room to move around. We really didn’t have any need for the chair.
The decision was made to take the chair to our other home and use the chair on that deck.
I really didn’t want the chair. Now that I had it, what was I going to do with it? We have other chairs that I consider just as comfortable.
I’m not one to throw away possibly good useful things, regardless of their use. I took a close look at the wicker chair. It appeared old, weathered and worn.
There were strands of its material that were beginning to come apart; and soon, the entire chair would be ready for a trip to the dump. It was slowly becoming just another pile of rubbish, I thought, much like the other rubbish in my son’s truck.
Finally, that day arrived. Standing out on the deck, looking at the chair sitting there along with other deck furniture, the decision was made. There was no other choice; I had to make a trip to the dump. I loaded the wicker chair in my truck and away I went.
Do you know how I felt?
Guilty. The chair looked like it was still intact, ready for use by someone.
It was like taking an unwanted pet somewhere and put it out, maybe to find a new owner. For some eccentric reason, I had a warm feeling about that chair. I guess it’s because I’ve seen wicker chairs around for years. Although I didn’t have tears in my eyes, I felt like weeping.
Arriving at the dump, I paid my three bucks, a fee for dumping, and slowly moved to the dumping area. There is an area at our community dump where things can be placed to be picked up by someone instead of just being dumped over into the bins of doom as I call them.
Backing up to the bins, lowering the tail gate of my pickup, I grasped the wicker chair and slowly lifted it out and walked to the edge of the bin.
Wait a minute, I thought. Maybe, just maybe, there is someone out there who would have a much kinder heart than I, who would probably have more appreciation for the chair. Maybe they would see some value in it, things that I couldn’t see.
So, with the chair still in my hands, I walked across the dump area to the place of reclamation and sat it down.
The rule at the dump is that if no one claims any of the things placed in the reclamation area, they are removed and placed in the dump bins, awaiting to be buried with the rest of the trash.
I left the county dump, looking back, thinking maybe I’ve made a mistake; maybe I should have kept the wicker chair. But then, probably no one would want it, I did the right thing. Moments after sitting the chair down in the reclamation area, heading out of the dump, hardly finishing my thoughts of the day, a rusty, banged-up pickup whizzed by me.
What do you think I saw? There, loaded on the back of his pick up, was my wicker chair.
Francis Bond resides in Richmond Hill. He writes a semi-regular column on things that interest him.