In the south bay town of Santa Clara, they have a once a year bonanza for junk pickers. We call it "Santa Clara Days", but it's really just a month, usually March - April, in which you can throw away anything you want and the city trucks will come by and take it. It winds up being about 50 square blocks of huge piles of discards in the middle of an extremely high-income city. Most blocks have heaps in front of every single house. There's literally so much that you can't possibly even look at it all. A lot of hard core pickers make their yearly nut from trucking out good stuff, but there's just so much - blocks and blocks of huge piles of
stuff: antiques, furniture, toys, building materials, you name it - all free for the taking - that they can't get it all, not even close.
Generally speaking, if you want to fill your truck you can do so in just a few blocks. It took me several years to get past the sheer exhilaration of it and confine myself to a more focused discrimination. The last few visits I've made, I foreswore upon entering the fray to take from the largess but a single item, patiently allowing that one thing to come to me rather than to search determinedly. It's like a zen moment, when from the morass that shining star touches you on the nose and goes "ping!" Well, a zen moment of emminent materialism, I guess.
And the technique works, at least for me. The very last time I was there, I got out of my car and watched the others I'd come with frantically digging through piles of junk, and, scanning lightly the surrounding cul-de-sac, I walked forthrightly toward a wooden box I'd spotted a good half-block away resting atop a huge pile of lumber in front of one of the many Craftsman bungalows lining the street. As I drew nearer I saw that it was a traveling plein air easel and paint-box of great age and patina, which had clearly been lovingly cared for prior to the ignominity of the disard. It resembles this one, but finely brass fitted and infinitley mellowed with linseed oil and age:
It was, and is still, in perfect condition. Research on the metal maker's tag near the clasps revealed that the box was manufactured before World War Two, and on the underside was a hand drawn artist's name designed nto a sort of logo, with the owner's Montmartre street address wood-burned beneath it in case it was lost.
Inside the case in the compartment underneath the palette were six unopened tubes of oil paint in brand new condition, all cadmium red, medium.
Best find ever? No, but a memorable one, especially in the way that
it seemed to find me.
The most dangerous traps are the ones you set for yourself. - Phillip Marlowe