the organ.

I have this problem. I adore things. Not in a superficial way, but in the most deep and adoring fashion. I love the items that most people would write off as (I hate to use this word)… junk. This fascination intensified tenfold when I moved to the upper Midwest. I don’t know why people in Wisconsin had so much better junk, but they did. Maybe it was because all the homes had basements, or maybe because everything was just older. This is a very often overlooked true fact, things in the South just aren’t as old. If you would find a kid’s lunchbox from the 1960s in my native Dallas, it would be an artifact, a real find! In the Midwest this would be nothing to lose sleep over. People like to forget why this phenomenon is true. Don’t let us forget that those “damn Yankees” torched most of the South after that little thing we like to call the Civil War. The South isn’t bitter, it really isn’t. There is also a really good chance the abundance of good junk came from an abundance of Lutherans. As a religion, Lutherans are known pack-rats, and a large population of them naturally means a large population of old lamps, coffee mugs, and cigar store Indians is not far away.

When I moved to Wisconsin I quickly became obsessed with one of the state’s most time-honored traditions, the rummage sale. They were such a novelty to me at first. Before moving all I knew of the Midwest was what I learned in primetime sitcoms from the mid 1990s. Every time I went to a fish fry, potato jubilee, or rummage sale, I felt like I was walking the same streets as the Winslows, the Lamberts, and the Taylors from Family Matters, Step by Step, and Home Improvement. Tim Taylor would let out his infamously husky grunt, Steve Urkel would say “did I doooo that?” and and then we’d all chuckle, because we were living the American Dream.

Taking me to a rummage sale was like dropping a crackhead in Harlem; I suddenly found myself swimming in amazing old stuff. Just like any good addict, it was about the chase just as much as it was about acquiring the goods. The small talk with the old ladies was hilariously satisfying. All you would have to do was walk within a 2 foot radius of one of their items, and you would get a story so deliciously Midwestern that it was best served with a Pabst and a side of cheese curds. “This lamp used to be on my nightstand dresser, that was until I married my second husband. I had to put it in the basement because he insisted on all halogen lights. He was from Chicago, you know how they love their halogen in Chicago”. You could always guarantee that these anecdotes to have a spouse insult, or a negative reference to Chicago. For a story to have both was a rare gem.

The more rummages I went to the less space there was in my apartment. Some of my favorite finds were a 1920s General Electric radio, a complete set of coffee mugs painted with Sheboygan’s best landmarks, and a really spooky old nativity scene. Yes, I did buy the lamp from the woman with the halogen fetish second husband. On one occasion I finally realized the core of my junk illness. There was an extremely shady character looking at an old wooden sled, the type you see in made for TV Christmas specials and Normal Rockwell paintings. I had no desire to buy the sled, but I was suddenly concerned for its welfare as I stared down the menacing fellow in the sunglasses. This was where my junk problem came from, I was simply giving junk a good safe home, like the guy that protects all of those dalmations from Cruella Daville. I mean, what if this sled ended up being used in a prison escape, or hung on the wall of a family restaurant? I had to buy it, for the sled’s sake! I was self-righteous and proud, the voice of the junk when it had to be silent.

The apex of my rummaging came from a week after the sled incident, when I stumbled upon junk gold. It was a 1917 Kimball pump organ, complete with foot pedals, beautiful vintage keys, and 4 octaves of still working organ pipes. I paid 40 bucks for it, completely overlooking my lack of space at home and my lack of a way to get it there. So I did what every moron would do: I gave the woman my driver’s license as a deposit and borrowed a hand cart. I pushed my brand new treasure three miles, from her lakefront mansion to my small, downtown apartment. When I realized I would have to cross a few major roads, I called a friend to momentarily block traffic with their car. It was an epic parade across Milwaukee. People waved at me, I simply nodded back as my hands were quite busy. It was fun to be a momentary spectacle, people must have been curious if I had stolen it from a church, or perhaps mugged the Phantom of the Opera.

As much as it cramped my apartment, the organ was a fantastic conversation piece and a reason to hold get-togethers. We’d get drunk on cheap beer and hold sing-alongs, performing music that sounded as bizarre as possible on such a noble instrument. Notable favorites were “Holy Diver” and “Livin’ on a Prayer”, complete with fist pumping. The organ was also phenomenal for my dating life. I was on a first date that wasn’t going well, and to help the lull in conversation I threw out that I owned an organ. When she didn’t believe me I insisted that I take her back to my apartment to prove it, and we ended up having a lovely evening of drinking, organ playing, and pleasant small talk on my sofa.

After two years of loyal service, the organ started to show its old age. A particularly bitter Wisconsin winter caused it to go terribly out of tune, and a large, intoxicated person attempted to climb it, causing cracks and bowing in its wooden skeleton. The organ finally gave up completely in the summer of 2009. It was 92 years old. I tried to continue to use it as a piece of household furniture, but I couldn’t handle the looks on my friend’s faces when I had to tell them that it didn’t work anymore. At first I was going to put it in the dumpster, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead I put it on my street corner, hoping somebody would find a home for it. Maybe some artist would paint it magenta, or maybe some hippy would use it as a stand for a fish tank. Those would be noble retirements for my old, good friend.

The week to come was a hard one, because nobody came for the organ. Every morning as a I walked to work I had to face it, staring back at me and asking, “why?”. It got rained on twice, and people began dismembering it. One day I passed it and some punk kids were hitting it and shaking it. I shooed them off like an old man and suddenly became overrun with guilt. What had I done to the most loyal piece of junk ever? Did it deserve this? I began pushing it to the dumpster, but then I paused, looking down. About half of the keys were missing. People had taken them as a keepsake. What a wonderful thought, instead of me burying the organ in the dumpster, it was cremating itself, spreading its own ashes in every person that took a piece. My guilt turned to a content warmth as a I thought about organ keys and pipes being used as decorations in random people’s homes. I left the organ on the corner and went inside.

The next morning I stepped outside and a family was taking their picture with the organ. I took their picture for them so the father could join his family in the shot. I smiled as I turned the corner and went to work.