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Show You never need them till their gone grassroots Copyright 1985 Becky Grass Johnson By BECKI JOHNSON One man's garbage is another man's treasure. You've heard it before, but it's not true. One man's garbage is another man's garbage. It's just that another man might treasure it. I'm a sucker for all kinds of treasures. I've hoarded egg cartons, baby food jars, matchless socks and the styrofoam from under the hamburger. I've had visions of constructing clever Easter centerpieces, cen-terpieces, dazzling Christmas tree ornaments and sock puppets for the kids. But most of my visions remained in the basement with boxes of pipe cleaners, one legged pantyhose and 'pop bottles. " ' ' It was the day after I cleaned up my act and shipped the whole works to Deseret Industries that my kindergarten child came home with a request slip for 37 clothespins, 23 egg cartons, 12 bread twist ties and two pounds of salt dough. ! ' The same thing happened after. I cleaned out the closets. I kissed my prom formals and an assortment of bell bottoms goodbye. I bid farewell to my husband's high school jacket sheep had thrown itself in front of a mack truck. He insisted it was the warmest, most comfortable thing he owned. I learned my lesson and I no longer get rid of perfectly useful items. I store, swap and barter junk. I've read articles on the art of sewing mittens from the sleeves of old sweaters. I can fill old ties with sand, add a forked felt tongue and have a draft stopper for the back door that looks like a friendly boa constricter. The pockets from old jeans can be embroidered and sewn together to make fashionable handbags. One woman I know saves the fuzzies from the lint trap of the dryer to knit afghans. I admit the whole business can get out of hand but at least I know I'm not alone in this. I've been to garage sales where I've paid good money for things that I had sent to the D.I. two years before. It was like bringing home an old friend. I'm sad to say I've been in homes where there are no treasures. A person can safely walk from one end of the basement to the other without tripping over things. It isn't i necessary to wear a crash helmet ' before you open the closet doors. I Without mazes of clutter or mysterious stacks of boxes there is little adventure left in life. Besides, where are the spiders supposed to : t live? j' I'm looking forward to a natural disaster. We could lose our elec- f tricity, communication and tran- sportation. We would be cut oil I from modern civilization and we know it. It will be impossible lo i purchase a single piece of con- I struction paper or scrap of material. Good luck finding paper clips, popsicle sticks or Elmer's I glue! j I'll just calmly scavenge through ,' my treasures for empty tuna cans, JDI sawdust and parafin to make candles. Without having to shuttle the kids to soccer practices or at- -tend scout meetings, I should have a little more time on my hands. I'll just sit by the light of a sawdust candle and fashion those clever I Easter centerpieces and dazzling Christmas tree ornaments I've been j ( dreaming about. by BECKI GRASS JOHNSON 4and' his powder blue, - polyester leisure suit. " 'It was the next week my cousin called pleading to borrow a formal she desperately needed. My neighbor mentioned that bell bottoms and leisure suits were making a comback. And my husband requested his beloved high school jacket with the fleece collar. It didn't matter that the last time he'd worn it was Feburary, 1978, or that the wooly collar looked like a |