Land of the Free

It's a bright Saturday afternoon and I'm walking to the playground with my son. Propped against a giant oak rest three old shovels, a rusty lantern cage, a box of plastic tabs for hanging files, a basketball, and a sign reading, "FREE."

This is one of my favorite parts of living in Santa Cruz: a total willingness to let go of your stuff without having to go through the extra work of a formal yard sale. To be sure, those exist in great numbers up and down the tree-lined streets, but they sometimes come across as crass and commercial when a man with a bulging fanny pack won't let go of a 1,000-piece lighthouse puzzle for less than 50 cents.

This is the land of the free, where a person can score a leather couch on one corner and a tennis ball lamp on the next. Everyone seems to share and share alike, alternating as depositors or collectors from day to day--a karmic exchange of things. I have shoved bookshelves in my backseat, strapped tables to the top of my car, and debated the merits of a bean bag chair with a teenager on a bike as we stood together on a corner where various items had been left for all to consider.

Once, my husband and I ran across two lanes of a busy street to claim a 3-person patio swing and canopy. With deft precision we jogged the 70-pound swaying monster to our car as if filming a new Farrelly Brothers comedy.

On the other hand, I've also left out plenty of very usable items myself: a working fax machine, a box of Duplos, a giant metal desk from the shed, and coffee mugs with canvas bags from years of conventions.

My grandmother was fond of saying that "one person's trash is another person's treasure" and, although she used it mostly when talking about boyfriends or ex-husbands, I believe she would like how our community of strangers exchange belongings so openly and without the need for a receipt.

It's also where we can enact some of life's adages like to do unto others or to live simply so that others may simply live. Being in the right place at the right time can result in a mattress for a college student or tricycle for a preschooler.

Today, I take the basketball under the tree and my 5-year-old acts as if he's won the kid lottery. It's a little flat, but bounces high enough for him and it's perfect at rolling down the slide for 30 minutes of entertainment. I hope that its previous owner can feel that the basketball has a new home where it's well-loved and that the gift of something for free--no strings attached--is worth more than the dollar it would fetch on his driveway.