It's true — one man's trash is another man's treasure

Some people would call it a brazen heist in broad daylight, and I can understand that. I prefer to think of it as a rescue mission, but you can decide for yourself. After all, it’s a free country, isn’t it?

Either way, it’s a Christmas story that bears telling, even now as most decorations and almost all the seasonal decorum have been packed away for another year, leaving us just a little less cheerful.

It all began in summer 2008 when the Great Recession swallowed my job whole, the way that vengeful white shark ended Quint during the bloody climax of “Jaws.” My wife and I, having begun a new adventure on the Carolina coast after a lifetime lived in Ohio, had become regular ocean-goers by then and had observed, close up and personal, the impact that movie still had on people.

A lot of them entered the water tentatively, almost on tiptoes, warily scanning the waves for signs of a telltale dorsal fin, all the while hearing that dread two-note theme echoing in their minds.

Dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun … you know what I’m talking about.

As it turned out, however, there was something out there, lurking and dangerous, but it proved to be a cruel economic crash, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the 1930s, one that cost me my job.

Having been in the newspaper game since 1977, I was pretty familiar with the ever-shifting landscape, the dire predictions, the graphs that showed future growth on a par with Wile E. Coyote’s plunge off a mesa cliff, that long, long fall until a final “splat.”

Being out of work was alien to me, but buoyed by years of unemployment compensation and a desire to see the country, I traveled around, visited some friends and family, wrote my weekly column, spent a lot of time at the beach, and essentially enjoyed life, knowing that eventually, I would have to find some kind of job.

And that’s how I found myself, in summer 2012, wearing the uniform of a residential security officer, duly trained and fully authorized to take on the responsibilities of being, well, the gate of the gated community in which my wife and I had lived for years.

I’m pretty sure you’re wondering how 30-plus years of being a newspaper editor had prepared me in any way for the challenges I faced in that new line of work, one that had seemingly nothing in common with the day-to-day inner workings of a journalist’s life.

As it turned out, the basics were identical — show up on time all the time, be a fast learner, ask many questions, volunteer to take on unfamiliar tasks, be polite and prove yourself to be invaluable.

It also helps a lot when you fully and freely admit your mistakes.

Those first few months as a part-timer and the “new guy” on the staff weren’t always pleasant, what with irregular hours, personality conflicts, issues with entitled residents and several clashes with authority figures, but I fought off discouragement, preferring instead to adopt an attitude of “Is that all you got?”

The validation I hoped for arrived around Christmastime when, as a total surprise, I was voted a full share in the annual bonuses usually reserved for the veterans, a gesture that moved me deeply.

Flash forward to another Christmas, several years down the road.

By then I’d become the longest-serving member of the security team and had been assigned, rather permanently, to the midnight shift. I liked the freedom and didn’t mind working alone, knowing that whatever crises might arise, I’d be more than able to handle.

It also meant I saw some things no one else ever did.

Every morning, just before dawn, I’d drive down to the marina where I’d walk around the various properties — the restaurant, the real estate office, the harbormaster’s quarters, the townhouses —making sure everything was, in the jargon of the place, shipshape.

I liked getting outside after being cooped up in the guardhouse for seven hours, nodding hello to the dog walkers, tipping my cap to the live-aboards on their boats, looking for anything out of place.

That’s when I saw the tree, left leaning against the restaurant door, abandoned, just waiting for the junkman to haul it away.

It was all alone, an artificial artifact of discarded insignificance, but I saw something else, something that bothered me for weeks.

It needed a home.

In all the years I’d worked security, I’d never taken so much as a shot glass from the hundreds of houses I’d been dispatched to, never accepted any gifts for services rendered, never pocketed a tip.

That Christmas Eve morning, though, having secreted a black plastic bag with twist-ties in my backpack, I scooped up that lonely tree, wrapped it like a hostage and scurried back to the truck, where I stowed it with the medical bag and emergency flares.

At shift change it was a simple matter to transfer the bundle to the Honda CRV, which I drove quickly, but not obtrusively, back home, where my wife took over, decorating it with two strands of multi-colored lights, matching silver ornaments and a star on top.

You’ll not be surprised to know it remains with us, standing proudly in the kitchen window, casting its comforting glow, a reminder that even the least-wanted among us still has value.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where that Charlie Brown tree retains relevance.