Since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, I have begun my mornings on the Craigslist free pages. There, in one of the stranger vestibules of the internet galaxy, I sift through a variety of treasure and trash. For certain pieces, the space between the two categories converge, and objects ‘non-working’, unconventional, or just having lost their shine to a once eager owner, find their way onto my screen, and sometimes my blog.Yet, what can be so damning about a virtual hobby is that it is hard to keep it at exactly that. Fifteen minutes of scrolling a subsection online can transpire into a hunt within the fine arteries of the very city you occupy; each street a good vein, ready to be punctured. An ideal mine for a bizzarro gold rush.
In the almost five years of my innocent hobbying, I have procured fine acquisitions, each of which rich with story, but literally nothing in cost. And for the purposes of this post, I have cataloged seven special items. Seven articles of treasure and trash. Seven pieces that adorn my home, and make it just that. Without my craigslist mornings, or little blog, I maybe would never have scratched my curious itch, made time to stop at an erroneously placed cardboard box, or little free library. Might never have found so many curious things.
My Dog
The early days of the pandemic only made my wanting grow stronger. Having a dog, a small companion to shepherd me through, had been a lifelong pipedream. But that dream had somehow expanded into the same one for many Americans once lockdown began. Having a dog was an excuse to get outside, to have permanent company at home, and care for something that was unlikely to be harmed by the noxious disease. It was also the first time in my life when I confidently had stopped seeking. My roommate’s cat was a barrier to entry, and I didn’t have the funds to care for one: my parents’ pragmatism finally–obnoxiously–settled in my ears. But one lackluster afternoon–days hard to distinguish in the absence of structure and what was then, normal life–I saw a post on NextDoor. The site had become our new source, and a neighbor was fostering a dog she could no longer care for–her own dog didn’t get along with the canine mother–and she was looking for a short-term foster home. Completely uncommitted but wanting to do a good deed for a helpless young thing in the way that I could, I volunteered a week of my time to watch the little pitt, Fizz. Nearly five years later, she’s still at my side; her adoption fee covered by the kind neighbor who re-homed her first.
“Grandma’s Masks”
The community center in my old neighborhood was a dark-shingled, Julia Morgan building that had a secret view of the entire city. It was a special place with free after-school programs, food drives, and exercise classes intended for at-risk seniors. The space was in need of some repairs, and they were trying to raise some money, so I organized a neighborhood-wide garage sale event, where residents who wanted to have a sale gave a donation to the center. In exchange they were put on a map for people coming to the neighborhood looking for goods. It was a fun day–abuzz with people and drenched in sun–and in its wake neighbors had left their unsold items on the curb to be picked up by the local recycling service. But some people had put their unwanted goods in the locally known free pile beneath an elementary school. I walked my dog by it a few days after the sale and there was a box labeled “GRANDMA’S MASKS” sitting ripe. I was curious to see what was inside and found a collection of faces from all over the world, many of which were likely picked up in the mid-twentieth century. Masks from Africa, Asia, South and North America looked out at me from the box, their faces alive with distinct artistry and culture. Though I am not a big fan of masks, dubious of their place in Western homes, I ended up taking two, too incredible to leave behind. One was from Colombia, a country I treasure, and was made of tin, face adorned with eyelashes and earrings. The other was a colorful, wood-carved face, adorned in animal fur from Hoopee Bay, Alaska. Taped to the back is a little note that simply reads, “The fierce spirit of the Caribou eats Eskimo ice cream and becomes docile.” I wonder if this is grandma’s handwriting, too.
Sketches of the Sand Dunes at Ocean Beach
For the past year, I have lived in a little cottage at the edge of the city, right beside the duned seashore. The neighborhood thrives in its own ecosystem, alive with succulents, fog, and barefoot surfers moving to and fro. Everything in its own time, adjusted to ebbing rhythms. On the walk to the beach there is a little free library at the edge of a community garden that sometimes also serves as a free pantry, hub for religious texts, or clothing drive. But one day, as I was dropping off some of my own books, I saw a manila envelope nested on the top shelf. In the envelope there were penned sketches, marked only by a faint signature, of the dunes left for someone else to find and admire. One sketch in particular caught my eye; it reminded me of the vantage point I come upon every time I walk over the dunes to the water’s edge, sun shining. On my walk home from the library, someone had left a silver frame in front of their house, free to whoever wanted it. It was a sign if there ever was one, and now the sketch of the nearby shore hangs in its rightful frame. Loved by all who see it, especially me.
Pressed Flowers
My 20s were spent broke, getting paid by the hour at a rate I could barely stomach. I had been physically disabled for most of the decade, which did nothing for my earnings, and I found myself working most nights and weekends, but still making a couple grand less than the poverty line. One of these gigs entailed me organizing peoples’ homes, a skill that I am freakishly good at. People with enough disposable income to offer this kind of work typically live in huge spaces, large enough to be filled with such an accumulation of bits and bobs they can hardly keep track. On one occasion, I was cleaning out a woman’s office and she came across a flower pressed piece she had made a bit ago. She no longer needed it; the green sprigs and faded irises reminded her of an ex she wanted to forget, and she laid it in the ‘get rid of’ pile we had made. I admired the press, telling her that she had made a beautiful piece–designed the flowers beautifully, which is no easy feat. Delicate work. I’ve tried. She said if I wanted it, I could have it. That the love might as well go somewhere. Transform itself into something that someone else can appreciate. I thanked her and did just that. It didn’t belong in the landfill.
A Dutch Oven
A year into the pandemic I moved into a warehouse apartment with five men; all of us strangers. We lived adjacent to the freeway, with windows that reached from the foot of the first floor, to the top of the second. Rent was cheap, split six ways, and in our building lived a mishmash of artists, creatives, techlords, and others archetypes of San Francisco’s new cultural landscape. Next to the rows of metal P.O. boxes in the foyer was a makeshift free space, where generous neighbors would leave wares and other goods they no longer had any use for; but one neighbor was specifically legendary. One morning, I came down to find a Le Creuset dutch oven, well-loved but still usable: free for the taking. In a moment where sourdough starters were a ubiquitous science experiment, it was a Hope-Diamond-esque discovery. I experimented plenty, with many dismal loaves that I eventually gave up on, but did transition to other great dishes where the dutch oven was of perfect use. It’s big for my little space, so it sits on my stovetop at all times, waiting for an Italian recipe to fill it up!
An Enamel Plate
There is a beach town hidden off of a quiet highway not far from me. Hidden is exactly how the town wants it, too. Locals have stripped any signs indicating where the beach town can be found from roadsides and highways. But for people close by, it’s something of an open secret, and I go there often, to walk my dog on the beach or watch friends surf on foggy mornings, as hawks fly through the redwood forest dotting the coast. In the town, there is a ‘free shed’ where locals leave items including clothes, books, cooking items, food in the hope that fellow neighbors might find something they want. One morning, when the light was just peeking through the overcast clouds in godlike streaks, I wandered into the shed, which was in its usual disarray. Beneath a miscellany of children’s clothes was an enamel plate: turquoise and freckled with artistic streaks, meant for decor rather than eating. The day was cold and the plate was small enough to be stuffed in a large coat pocket, but not so small that a teacup would look proportional on top of it. A few days later and without thinking, I ran the coat through the laundry, hearing a fun clunk, clunk, clunk as the coat whirled through. After the load was finished, it dawned on me what I had done, but the plate was beautiful as ever. Unbroken and unblemished, it now sits on my bathroom counter, holding my collection of spare perfume and nail polish bottles, like it’s always been there.
My Desk Lamp
One morning as I walked the empty hills of my small neighborhood, I found a box in front of a once beautiful Victorian house. The word “Free” was written in haphazard sharpie on its street-facing side, and I raked through its contents, wondering what I would find in front of the home that had been reduced to a construction site. Beneath old car manuals and tattered leather gloves, I found a black drafting light, the long bulb still fastened in. The plug for the big piece looked old, at least fifty years or so, and I’d needed both a desk and a light for months now. My graduate program in Creative Writing had just started, and I had no funds for furniture–barely anything after rent and groceries. I’d found a free desk from one of the many offices that had gone remote during COVID, but it still needed some lamplight. Like any drafting light, it can be fastened to any edge and it reminded me of the one in my father’s office. Growing up, he and I both struggled with insomnia, and I’d wander into his office at two or three in the morning, when it seemed like we were the only two people in town awake. Under the single light of his lamp, the one that now resembled mine, we would play made up word games until I grew sleepy again. Brain stretched and mind tired. Now, the drafting light guides me through my writing, takes me to the end of the page when so many people are breathing heavily in and out, their lights off, when time stands as still as sea air.
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ZOE STRICKER is a writer living and working in San Franicsco. She is at work on her first novel and in her free time likes to take her dog, Fizz, to the beach.
