I love it when treasures appear. 

At five o’clock in the afternoon, every day, my dogs bring me their leashes and demand their walk. Their sense of time is more precise than Big Ben. Dutifully, I acquiesce to their demands. 

Our route is the same – down our street, right on Lemon Street, left on Hope Avenue, and then… Hold Up! 

In the front yard of a house was a glider. Not a sailplane, but an old-fashioned swinging couch on a metal rack. It needed a little love, but I was in love. The handwritten sign taped to the metal railing carried one word: FREE! 

For the remainder of our walk, I focused on that glider. I could paint it a fun color and make matching orange and white cushions. When the dogs and I circled back, the glider was still there. 

That night I tried to convince myself to pass on it; you don’t need another project. 

The next day at five o’clock, the dogs gave me my marching orders. I tethered them to their leashes and off we went. Down our street, right on Lemon, left on Hope – it was still there. In the last twenty-four hours, no one had taken it. That was a sign. This time the dogs and I sat on it and gently rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I had to jump off before I fell asleep.

Where would I put it? My backyard was starting to look like a used car lot with all its mismatched furniture. But this piece spoke to me. I dashed home.

“Kids!” I burst into the house with the zeal of someone who had won the lottery, “Come with me.” 

We pulled up next to the curb and popped open the back of my SUV. It was lightweight but cumbersome, unwieldy. The top was reaching up at least five feet, the width even more. We tried to fold it down, push it up, glide it in, half in and half out. No luck. Back to the house and the drawing board.

When we arrived back home, the kids hopped out, “Where are you going?” I asked.

“We have homework,” the said abandoning me.

The next day the FREE sign was gone, but the glider remained. I put my two dogs on the seat and pulled it off the curb. I dragged it 50 feet up Hope Avenue, making a horrible rattling and scraping sound, with the seat flying back and forth like a rickety Ferris wheel seat in the wind. That wasn’t going to work either. Disappointment glided over me.

The following morning, my dear friend, Michelle, called me. “Can you do me a big favor? I borrowed a truck, and I’m just down your street, can you help me load in this…”

“NOT THE GLIDER! THAT’S MINE,” I shouted.

Shocked, she asked, “What? So, you know about it?”

“Know about it? Intimately! I’ve wrapped my body around it in every position imaginable.”

“Do you want me to bring it up to your house?”

Her offer was more than generous. Tempting.

“No, it was meant for you, but I refuse to help you load it in the truck.”

“Understandable.”

My treasure vanished.

A week later she called, “Will you help me paint the glider?”

I did – orange with matching pillows. It looks perfect… in her yard.

Live with waffletude.