I live in an old house, the oldest house on a street of old houses, and the trees that line our streets are old and tall. The eldest of this society is a tulip tree in my backyard who is older than the state, likely blooming for the first time as Jesuits made their way downriver to spread the Gospel in this place where three rivers meet.

Tulip trees are plentiful if you travel south into long Indiana and wide Tennessee, but less common here; and so, I have come to believe that this elder statesman was planted by human hands long ago. A few times a year I think about this person, especially in spring as the tree prepares to bloom. Was the planter around when the priests came through? We offer prayers for the dead. Why languish them only on the familiar; why not toss up a few for those who planted the trees giving shade now?

Under the verdant awning of the tulip tree and his subordinates is my kingdom, just shy of an acre, a corner lot perfect for teaching a child to ride a bike. I spend a good deal of time in my yard: picking up sticks, getting steps, lazily supervising activities. And then there is my peculiar hobby.

I take pictures of the trash that I find in my yard. It all started with Bethany’s spelling test eight years ago. I remember feeling a great kinship with Bethany. I too conveniently lost spelling tests with failing grades. I took a photo of it and threw it away. At first I only took photos of the things that I found strange, but these days I take photos of almost everything: Paris green eraser caps, single-use Purell packets, half a robin’s egg (animals leave things too), and so many water bottles. I like to think about the person who dropped the item and to wonder what the thing means or says about us, a nonsense game, an opportunity for surprise and leisure in a life crowded with responsibilities. I try to make the photo as “aesthetic” as possible: angles, lighting, focus. One time I waited for morning sunbeams to make a Snapple bottle glow; it didn’t work. I’m not much of a photographer, but that’s not really the point of the hobby.

Just last week, getting the yard ready for its first mow, I found a peeled-off sticker, the kind that might decorate a water bottle, nestled in a few leaves by the curb. It reads, “Home is where your boots are,” with a picture of Western-style boots acting as vases for sunflowers.

What should we think of this? A sticker made for the sort of person who buys Western boots and leaves them at home to use as decor? Or does it mean that wearing cowboy boots is so empowering that any place can become one’s home? Well, that’s not true. The library is not home; someone else’s home is not home; if the city park has become home, perhaps you have other things to attend to than the perfect sticker for your situation.

That’s the hobby. And spring is the very best season for it. So far the most ridiculous thing has not been what someone left behind, but what someone didn’t take. A few weeks ago I put a spring horse out to the road—one of those hollow plastic carousel-looking horses set on a metal frame. Our children had grown too large for the horse, and some were making poor decisions with it. Turning the corner home later, I was excited to think it had gone, but then confused to see the white horse lying on the ground. Some seconds passed before I realized what had happened. A metal scrapper had severed the horse from its springs and base, taken the metal, and left the hunk of plastic behind.

Useless without its frame and springs, it will have to be tossed in the public dumpster the city puts out once a year. I bet the same picker will see it there as he rifles around for more scrap. It always makes me nervous to see the scrappers shifting around heavy things with their soft toes and fingers. So I will say a prayer for them, and the soul who planted my tree, and Bethany, who I believe will be graduating high school this spring.