Made it to the Dump

Late last year, my step-daughter borrowed my truck. It was just for the day, so she could move. Three weeks later, I still didn’t have the truck, and driving home one night, my son said, “Dad, that’s your truck…” I assured him that it wasn’t my truck, sitting in a city owned lot, that his sister had the truck and it couldn’t be there. He was adamant, and asked if we could please turn around and go look. He was so sincere that I pulled into a driveway and turned around.

Sure enough, he was right, it was my truck, the bed full of boxes and things, covered, somewhat by a tarp, with a dent in the tailgate, and a broken taillight. We drove the few blocks home, walked back to the truck and drove that home as well. I parked it in the driveway, and eventually asked the step-daughter when she was going to come get her stuff out of it, and oh, what about the damage.

She had a note from the person that hit the truck with a phone number, and said that she hadn’t returned it, because she wanted to get in touch with them, and have it repaired before she gave it back. She didn’t mention why she hadn’t emptied it yet.

I left the truck in the driveway, with her stuff in it, not wanting to drive it with a broken brake light, and not really wanting to call the people to get fixed. I had enough to deal with, and decided not to decide on this one. She never showed up to take her things. They were rained on, snowed on, and sun baked.

Today, I finally moved her stuff out of the back of the truck, into the bigger truck, drove it to the dump, paid the $20, and was done with it. There was clothing, CD’s and DVD’s, books, paperwork, toys, and a portable stereo. None of it was worth anything.

I managed to dispose of some packing material that was too big for the trash can.

It was good to get rid it of. I need to clean up the truck, find the parts for the light, get it fixed and get it sold.


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