I grew up in the country, long before there was a luxurious weekly garbage service and fancy cans. The row of dented metal cans sat alongside the back of the house, filling up until the lids would teeter at the bulging capacity. My dad would back up his little pickup truck and we’d load cans and all.
I don’t know where or why my enthusiasm started, but it was like the highlight of my weekend. I’d sit on the front seat all excited. I’m not sure if we even had seatbelts. We’d drive down through Pocket Canyon in Forestville, winding our way through the redwoods and about half way to Guerneville we’d make a right turn up a hill to the dump. That’s what it was called. Now it’s like refuse center or something. I like dump.
My dad would back up the truck to a cavernous pit and stop just before his back tire would hit that wimpy little concrete stop. I always feared he’d misjudge and we’d go sailing into the abyss. The tailgate would drop down and we’d start tossing. Everything went in. There was no such thing as recycling or restrictions. The tires would bounce down the hill and the fluorescent tubes would explode on impact. My challenge was to see how far I could throw. And I’d stare at those giant loud yellow tractors moving about and wonder why the seagulls were there rather than at a pretty coastal beach. Stupid seagulls, don’t you know better?
So my love of discarding has never faded and if a trip to the dump makes me happy, this new dumpster down-right makes me euphoric. I mean seriously… I was grinning ear to ear as I watched it slide off the truck this morning. I think I told the driver “thank you” about 5 times.
Oh I have so many plans for it and can’t wait for the trash in the garage to be gone this weekend!!
p.s. The title of today’s post… This dumpster cost us a whopping $500. Ouch. But let the progress continue.