Trash talking
With this column, I move into my second year and the second phase of “Outta My Yard.” I will no longer be documenting the process of acquiring our home – a process that took place nearly three years ago (and thrilled so many of you to the quick) – but will revert to my usual everyday complaints and carping, à la my former column, “Outta My Way.” So, in order to kick off a new season in style, I will start with a confession: I’m a garbagehead.
No, I’m not taking stock of my oeuvre (although some might find that description apt), and I’m not talking about rifling through my neighbor’s dust bins after the sun goes down (sounds fun though – people toss out really good stuff). I’m talking about the real thing – detritus, waste, refuse, rubbish. Trash.
The fascination started in childhood. As far back as I can remember, Saturday morning meant Dump Day. It was always a special honor to ride shotgun beside my dad as we hauled the trailer behind the Chevy Impala up High Street to the Bath dump, where the mountains of sheer crap – and the stench – literally took my breath away. In memory, these days are always bright and clear, with the blue blue sky and white white gulls arcing overhead in stark contrast to the piles of appliances, tires, rusted metal and soggy cardboard below. “Oh, irony,” I may have muttered to the Malibu Barbie perched on my armrest. “Is this the best we have for Mother Earth?” Of course, this did not deter me from adding my share of crap to the slag heap over the years: Chatty Cathys, E-Z Bake Ovens, Etch-A-Sketches, Suzy Homemaker washer-and-dryers, Tonka Trucks and, yes, Miss Malibu herself. I just felt guilty about it.
I did try to compensate. I recall organizing a group of likeminded nine-year-old classmates (I was able to round up two) to march and pick up litter on the first Earth Day in 1970. I hand-painted a sign that read “We can save the earth” in drippy scrawl, borrowed the cart my brothers once used to deliver newspapers, and took to the streets. Oh yes, and I alerted the media, which in Bath meant calling the Times Record. I envisioned a front-page, upper-fold photograph (I had worn love beads and a peace sign just in case) with complete interview and story: “Remarkable Girl Saves World!”. Instead, my merry band of garbage pickers got two sentences buried under weather forecasts and Jell-O recipes – my first taste of dealing with a press reluctant to promote my agenda. I, however, remained undaunted.
I would like to say my membership and involvement with the Sierra Club in high school was entirely environmental in nature, but in my heart I was less interested in policy than a ticket out of here. (Just the same way I had joined the Girl Scouts one spring to get in on a trip to Boston and promptly quit upon our return.) I pored over the Sierra Club’s outings brochures like most girls my age drooled over clothing catalogues. And when I was finally able to swing a trip to the Wyoming Rockies, the only letdown was that I wasn’t instantly selected as the Club’s mascot (“Remarkable Girl Saves World!”), and had to return home.
My real relationship with garbage didn’t fully develop until I was living on my own, in a borrowed house deep in the exurbs of Boston. I had just returned (retreated) from two years in San Francisco and was looking for work (and sulking). Broke, unemployed and without a friend within 100 miles, there weren’t a lot of distractions. Going to the dump was one of the few.
Problem was, being broke and living on a diet of chicken legs, lentil soup and popcorn meant I didn’t generate a lot of garbage, aside from the mounting pile ofGlobe want ads. Regardless, I had my recycling center set up in the garage with military order. And once a week, whether I needed to or not, I loaded up my baggieful of trash and visited my pal, the local dumpmaster of Sherborn. Generally an affable man with plenty of time to gab with this floundering, underemployed and over-recycling dump malingerer, he was short with me one day. I don’t know why – maybe some Sherborn matron had dropped a Viking range on his toe, or he had simply woken up on the wrong side of the compost heap – but his rebuff threw me into a fit of misery. I went back to my borrowed house and threw myself on my borrowed bed and wept bitter tears. When I was through, I dried my eyes and realized it might be time to get on with things.
Much of those dark Sherborn days remains a blur, but I did carry back to Portland my zeal for trash control. The Silver Bullets – I favored either the one at East End Beach or behind RSVP – became stand-ins for my trips to the dump. (You don’t know satisfaction until you’ve hurled an empty pepperoncini jar into that metal maw.) I refused to entertain the notion that spending the better part of a morning de-gumming peanut butter jars, removing the cellophane windows from pasta boxes and envelopes, and then driving across town for recycling was not a worthy, energy-saving investment.
And then curbside recycling came to Portland, and I was on easy street. Not only did I have the convenience of simply trotting my blue bin out the front door, but I could also show off to my neighbors how adroit I was at the task of sorting and cleaning. (Yes, I’m sure our neighbor Thong – who I just know had pizza boxes stashed in her trash – was enthralled by my nested cans and crushed milk containers.) Still, there was something lacking.
I missed the dump.
Of course, I didn’t realize this until I became a homeowner and was handed the golden key: the Portland property owner’s Dump Punch Card. Because, you see, no matter how much you pay for rent or how much of that money goes to city taxes, your garbage does not count until you own property.
This past summer, John and I began to get acquainted with the Riverside Recycling Facility (which we still call the dump) as we cleared brush (just like W!) around the old hacienda. I did the first couple trips on my own – in the dead heat of July – and was impressed not only with the order and efficiency of the operation, but by how pleasant all the dumpmasters (and mistresses) were. On one particular day, there was even a fella driving around in a golf cart handing out popsicles. As I unloaded my brush, I was taken by the timelessness of the dump experience – the big blue sky, the circling gulls, the snootfull of stench and the sense of satisfaction one feels when putting useless crap in its place. (Why, it’s just like writing a column!)
So, between our recycling regime, our beloved compost heap and the occasional chicken-bone drop in someone else’s garbage, John and I have managed to eke down our trash to one 15-gallon bag per month. Not that I’m overly smug or self-satisfied about this. Just a modest little “Remarkable Girl Saves World!” will do.
Elizabeth Peavey recycles used jokes here biweekly.
