Saturday, March 19, 2011


Hello, my name is Erik. I am a pack rat. I treat it as a title so let me say, I am a Pack Rat. My sister tells a story of an afternoon when she was riding home from high school with some friends. They all began laughing at the sight of a small child who was bent over with the top half of his body in a trash can. When the boy stood up with some odd trinket in his hand. I was that boy. To this day I can't say whether my feeling of pride outweighs embarrassment concerning this habit of mine to recycle-collect-obsess over-hoard-save from the trash. (Twenty minutes later I am walking the dog and have finally gotten the nerve up to continue writing...perhaps four decades of pent up shame has me being led like a blind man by my nice dog. typing with one thumb and plastic bag of dog droppings wrapped around the other thumb.) I have an overpowering urge to press the delete key. Maybe Nice (the dog) may jerk the phone from my hand an' send it flyin'.(That "cuts it",if I am reverting to writing with a Georgian drawl it must be a subject I have issues with.) ( Nice has now led me into the park. Down the large hill everyone uses for snow sliding in winter, we are almost to the creek and following a dirt path only used by hikers and cyclists.) I would rather talk about the shoes I am wearing...
My shoes were a gift from Big Al of a beach side town along the Florida coast. Big Al left everything to his best friend when he died. It was his friend who now had the honor of giving away his possessions. His friend. Gave me a ride one evening, let me shower at Big Al's house and gave me several pairs of shoes big Al had bought at the thrift store but never worn. My feet just happened to be the same size as Big Al, and here I sit wearing a pair of shoes I would have never bought myself in the park a mile from my house because I don't want to address the possibility I might have too much stuff.

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