'Carry the Light' Excerpt: Trashed

Editor's Note: For the first time in the history of the San Mateo County Fair, a 300-page anthology has been published that includes more than 100 stories, poems and essays from writers who submitted award-winning work for the fair's literary contest. The idea was the brainchild of Bardi Rosman Koodrin, a San Bruno resident who runs the fair's literary contest, and the anthology, titled "Carry the Light," features work from many Peninsula writers.

This story received an honorable mention for "Most Promising Writer of the Year" in the San Mateo County Fair literary contest.

From p. 160, “Trashed”

I married a garbageman the summer of ’72, the summer my boyfriend-turned husband came to Papa with his freshly printed diploma heralding an AA degree in aeronautical maintenance.

“Primo, the airlines aren’t hiring.  Can you get me into the garbage for the summer?”

Like Papa my husband, Steve, was “in the garbage” for almost forty years.  The stories they told of the people and “finds” they encountered on their routes entertained us through many a Sunday dinner.  In 1976 Steve brought home an abandoned suitcase he found on his route in San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf proving my father’s favorite adage,

“If you’ve got the time and the patience, you can find anything in the garbage.”

As I make my way through the suitcase, I start to feel a tug at my conscience.  There is a common thread running through these items, something a bit unsettling.  It was that tuft of slightly soiled white chiffon that delivered the rude awakening, pulling at the fluffy stuff unleashed yards and yards of sheer, ruffled fabric - fabric traditionally used for a bride’s negligee on her wedding night.

“Oh, my God, look!”  I spring to my feet, holding the negligee up for Steve to see.

“What’s the matter?”

“This suitcase belongs to a newlywed…a bride, probably a June Bride.”

“From the size of that nightgown, she could be June, July and August.” 

I had to laugh, it was true, I noticed that our newlywed bride was a healthy size 18.

Now my brain switched gears,

“You realize this is no longer a “find,” now it’s a “rescue.” 

Steve just nodded in agreement.  I was in what he referred to as my “Lucy Ricardo mode.” The inventory turned into an investigation as I examined the remains; miscellaneous toiletries, a modestly equipped make-up pouch, several packages of “queen sized” panty hose and a generous pink lingerie bag.  Handling these personal items was beginning to make me feel intrusive, almost voyeuristic.  Gradually, I felt my fingers adapt a gentler, more reverent touch with each new discovery.  June Bride was slowly becoming less of a hapless victim and more of a friend in need.  A thorough search, checking pockets, unzipping secret compartments failed to give even the slightest hint as to June Bride’s identity.  Finally, an inconspicuous tear in the suitcase’s lining invited a quick sweep of my finger snagging a flat, plastic container.  I didn’t recognize it at first, being a liberated woman of the 70’s, but then I held it up to the light. 

“Urethra, I found it!”  My voice blasted through the garage.

There was no mistaking its contents; they were as innocent as my Freudian slip.  

“What’s that?”  Steve sprinted over, his hand reaching out to snatch my find for a closer look.

“Don’t touch it… it’s a diaphragm!”

What’s to explain?  I was my father’s daughter, driven by a well honed compulsion.  There was a stolen suitcase, a ruined honeymoon and a bride mourning the loss of her trousseau.  Steve recognized the symptoms, emotions and opportunity were driving this bus.

First thing Monday morning, I received a call from Dr. Cumming’s receptionist.  She listened patiently as I explained the situation, including my theory that we were looking for a June bride and finally, how my sleuthing efforts led me to call the office.  I could tell that she was an older woman, late 50’s maybe with a warm, yet straightforward manner.

“So you’re asking us to identify the owner of the suitcase based on the diaphragm you found?”

“Yes, ma’am” There was a slight twang to her speech compelling me to use the term “Ma’am.”

“Well, this is a first, but I’ll see what I can do.  Give me a little time and I’ll get back to you.”

I was surprised when the phone rang a little over an hour later and heard her voice on the other end of the line,

“Hello, this is Mildred Wade from Dr. Cumming’s office…”

I sensed lightness in her voice as if she had been giggling before I answered the phone.  I could tell others were listening from the noises in the background.  Mildred explained that Dr. Cumming’s office was in a rather small town and that she and the other ladies in the office came to the conclusion that it was probably one of two recently married young women, but first they needed a bit more information.

“Did you find a negligee?”

The question caught me off guard.  I flashed back to the soiled tuft of chiffon, my first clue to this mystery.  I replied that indeed, I had.  Mildred placed me on speaker phone and asked me to describe it in detail.   Now, I was aware that I had an audience hanging on my every word.  I walked them through the layers of ruffles and gathers, the demure, lace neckline and “princess” bodice.   Then Mildred delivered the clincher,

“What size is it?”

“An 18,”

“B-I-N-G-O!”  There were shouts and groans followed by a “Pay up, Charlotte,” echoing in the background as Mildred explained.  One of the ladies had attended a wedding shower for June Bride and specifically remembered the negligee.  Confidentiality prohibited her from giving me June Bride’s phone number, but she assured me that her co-worker would pass mine along.

Thirty-five summers have past, I find myself rummaging through the kitchen junk drawer looking for our old address book.  It’s front and back covers long gone, it serves as a testing ground for dried up pens.  I run my finger down the side, following the letters in alphabetical order until it rests on the “G.” I flip the page and read the penciled entry, Wayne and Barbara Galvin, 1174 Willowglen Way, Naperville, Illinois.  It is dated 7-30-76.  A familiar tickle comes over me as I tilt the book side-ways to read the margin entry; Katie Ann Galvin, March 8, 1977.  I smile, remembering Papa.

“If you’ve got the time and the patience, you can find anything in the garbage.”

Excerpted from "Carry the Light" with the permission of Sand Hill Review Press, the publisher. The book is available for purchase for $12 on Amazon.com.

Sue Barizon, the daughter of immigrant parents, was born in San Franciscan, and raised in San Mateo. She writes mostly about her experiences growing up in the suburbs during the '50s and '60s, the daughter of a garbageman. She and her husband have lived in the same house for the past 40 years—just around the corner from her childhood home.