No junk was trunked in the making of this entry.

A few years ago, I was visiting my chum Sandra in Kingston. We decided on an afternoon driving adventure, and ended up in the countryside about halfway to Ottawa. We drove by a complex of old barns, all filled to the brim with `antiques', surrounded by fields full of doors, windows, cars, jars, furniture, crockery, boat motors - pretty much anything your heart desired you could find somewhere in this place. Of course, in spite of the snowy March afternoon, we hit the brakes and pulled over, wanting to explore the mass of junk and sheer variety of stuff the owner had amassed.

One of the most memorable mental pictures I took away from exploring this place was the chair graveyard - in the dimly-lit attic of a long, narrow barn, about the length of a football field, were chairs of every variety, stacked in 20 foot piles all the way to the rafters, as far as the eye could see. Wooden kitchen chairs, metal desk chairs, straightback chairs - it was overwhelming to see so many chairs in one room. Something about the repetition of the same shape almost to infinity messed with something in the visual cortex, for sure.