Thursday Morning
I don't think trash day is solely an American institution, but among my routines it is certainly one of the most entrenched and consistent. Wednesday night is a flurry of gathering all the half-full and all-full tall white kitchen trash bags (Glad makes them; it must provide a substantial portion of their corporate revenues) and cramming them into 2 or 3 large hard-plastic barrels.
At my usual wake-up time of 5:30, I dress appropriately and go outside to put the barrels into the back of our minivan and trek them 600 feet to the end of the driveway where I leave them for Millbury Rubbish Removal to come and empty. Josh, my son, almost always brings the empty barrels back up the driveway.
Of course there are obstacles to the orderly, timely performance of this sacred duty such as snow storms, the dog waking up early (he needs to go out on his run or will share his bladder contents with us), etc. This morning it was snow, but that just becomes a task earlier in the sequential ritual.
There is no deeper meaning I have found, as yet, in this activity, though I presume such might exist. I've read sermonettes on the importance of cleaning the garbage out of our lives (you should see the mess of equipment right behind me as I write) but give me a break. I guess the maggots that sometimes enjoin themselves to the unwashed innards of the barrels could be newsworthy (they certainly are nose-worthy).
Maybe the thing that's most profitable about trash day is the deeper meaning of ritual or routine. Without it, I'd have nothing to do (hallelujah!) at 5:30 on Thursday mornings. But trash will always be a part of the human condition; despite all efforts and claims by some to consume only what they produce (recycling taken to the extreme). That said, I do wish we had the option of recycling more.
Maybe I should throw more away, too. We, as a family, lose the battle of the paper on a regular basis. Some junk mail is just not junky enough to find its way into the trash. We store it and intend to act upon it but months or years later it just sits and provides a home to dust mites.
Whatever, this post is probably as much trash as any, but I wanted to at least journal my Thursday mornings.
Oh yeah, on spring and summer mornings I sometimes don't use the minivan and instead bring the barrels down myself by hand. Then I walk along the street to bring up the newspaper. The 200-foot walk to the paper is a delightful moment to taste and hear the air before its been stirred or mixed with exhaust and civilized noise. That .. is cool.
Ciao,
John
At my usual wake-up time of 5:30, I dress appropriately and go outside to put the barrels into the back of our minivan and trek them 600 feet to the end of the driveway where I leave them for Millbury Rubbish Removal to come and empty. Josh, my son, almost always brings the empty barrels back up the driveway.
Of course there are obstacles to the orderly, timely performance of this sacred duty such as snow storms, the dog waking up early (he needs to go out on his run or will share his bladder contents with us), etc. This morning it was snow, but that just becomes a task earlier in the sequential ritual.
There is no deeper meaning I have found, as yet, in this activity, though I presume such might exist. I've read sermonettes on the importance of cleaning the garbage out of our lives (you should see the mess of equipment right behind me as I write) but give me a break. I guess the maggots that sometimes enjoin themselves to the unwashed innards of the barrels could be newsworthy (they certainly are nose-worthy).
Maybe the thing that's most profitable about trash day is the deeper meaning of ritual or routine. Without it, I'd have nothing to do (hallelujah!) at 5:30 on Thursday mornings. But trash will always be a part of the human condition; despite all efforts and claims by some to consume only what they produce (recycling taken to the extreme). That said, I do wish we had the option of recycling more.
Maybe I should throw more away, too. We, as a family, lose the battle of the paper on a regular basis. Some junk mail is just not junky enough to find its way into the trash. We store it and intend to act upon it but months or years later it just sits and provides a home to dust mites.
Whatever, this post is probably as much trash as any, but I wanted to at least journal my Thursday mornings.
Oh yeah, on spring and summer mornings I sometimes don't use the minivan and instead bring the barrels down myself by hand. Then I walk along the street to bring up the newspaper. The 200-foot walk to the paper is a delightful moment to taste and hear the air before its been stirred or mixed with exhaust and civilized noise. That .. is cool.
Ciao,
John