The joy and satisfaction of a hand cart falling apart from so much use
In yesterday’s post about volunteering in the cold, I showed a picture of something that always reminds me of the Blues Brothers movie when the Bluesmobile falls apart:
They’d taken that car through a lot and it meant something to them. It’s like it was telling them: I held myself together to give you all you needed.
Note the wheels in the picture of my cart below. I’ve been using it five years or so and they’re falling apart.
My doormen comment on how they’re falling apart. As far as I can tell the cart is disposable—that is, not made to be reparable—like nearly all consumer products these days. I didn’t choose it. One of the volunteer coordinators for the Chelsea fridge lent it to me long-term for my volunteering work about five years ago. The wheels can’t be replaced.
The wheels’ condition don’t make me embarrassed at something falling apart. They make me think of the miles I’ve pulled the cart and the tons of food I’ve diverted from landfills to people whose need for food led them to get it free.
It’s like my Bluesmobile. One day it will break for the last time. Most likely that break will happen under a particularly heavy load on a day when I’m in a hurry, maybe when it’s cold, raining, or snowing, since in inclement conditions I’m most hurried and distracted. The combination of all the problem will anger or frustrate me most. I’ll have to figure out how to get all the food from wherever the cart falls apart to where I’m delivering it without the cart.
I’ll be furious and wonder why me!?!? but when the moment passes, I’ll honor the cart. Maybe I’ll ask one of the coordinators for another cart. Maybe I’ll use the occasion to pause from volunteering. I wonder if it will happen soon or in ten years.
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