Crunch

As I was looking out my home office window this morning I watched Ken back the black car straight into the fence at the base of our driveway. Poor guy. It was sad to see him hang his head so low in disbelief. Rats. He's okay and so's the car (there's a hole in the tire cover) but it brings to mind the fact that it's almost time to find a new home for our aged '97 RAV we affectionately call Flicka. She's approaching the 200,000 mile mark and needs more and more coddling each day just to get her to roll down the driveway. With the price of gas going up and up and up I'm thinking a real live steed might be a more efficient source of transportation to work - hay costs less than gas, right?

Patches of grass have appeared in our yard along with waist-high piles of gravel-covered snow. It is the ugliest sight ever and my least favorite sign of spring. Come April we'll have the unfortunate task of raking it all back onto the driveway...oh joy. On a happier note, I heard cardinals singing like there's tomorrow and tonight there will be light at in the sky at 6pm!

Though we're both very short on sleep and showing signs of coming down with the sniffles we're never the less off to scope out the bottle collector's flea market this morning. Bottle collectors - they're a special breed for sure and I have a special fondness for them I can't deny. My dad was a bottle collector. He along with his buddy John would head out early on a Saturday or Sunday morning to secret spots only they knew about from their boyhood. They knew where the old steamboat landings used to stand until they rotted into the inlet, where the old hotels once stood before the big fires and where houses and farms once thrived before the horrific hurricane of '25. Their bottle hunting trips were always timed to coincide with low tide no matter how early in the morning it came. Their gear included enormous hip waders and special metal poles they made themselves. They'd wade out into the water (sometimes thigh-high) and gingerly poke these metal probes into the sand. When they heard the clink-clink sound of glass they'd start digging. I once remember John holding dad's head and upper body under water so he could use both hands to bring up a bottle.

The eaves of our Florida room were lined with bottles in graduated sizes in all colors and shapes. They were displayed in every nook and cranny of our house. I suspect my mom hated dusting them but I don't remember her ever complaining. I do remember the day dad came home with an intact oil lamp. It even had its burner. On other occasions he'd bring home bone pipes, crocks and suspender buckles. Mom still has most of the bottles boxed up in her attic. There are hundreds of them. My sister and I have a small fraction of them in our own homes. While my own collecting habits don't include hip waders and holding my breath under water they are still none the less obsessive and were likely formed from watching my father. My mother too had a penchant for cruising the thrift shops and antique shops near the big old bridge to Palm Beach. I still have some of the things I collected on those trips with her. The thrill of finding a coveted piece of vintage Fiesta at a next-to-nothing price still gets my heart going and my wallet throbbing. Guess I come by this treasure hunting bug honestly. Thanks dad. Thanks mom.