Wayne caught the cleaning bug. I’m proud to say all the sorting and organizing I’ve been doing appears to have rubbed off on him.  Last week he decided to go through the garage. I was grateful. While I was able to park my car, it was becoming increasingly difficult to open the door and climb out.

The first item he found was a case of Mason jars I had stored in there. A single case of jars, mind you. You would have thought those jars took up the entire garage. He blew into the house and insisted that I was to "do something with those jars."  The dutiful wife that I am, I ventured out to see what else he was cleaning out, and found he’d loaded his trailer with what would commonly be called ‘junk’: a moldy tarp, a bowling ball bag with the stitching rotted out, a rusted propane tank, and other such stuff.

“Oh good, you’re getting a load ready to take to the dump.” A horrified look came over my husband. “The dump! I can’t get rid of this. I might need it some day.” I swear I am not making this up. Wayne insisted on keeping a rotted out bowling ball bag. The look on my face must have said it all, because he walked over to the case of jars and added it to his stack, all the while muttering that he’d find a space for those, too.