The Dump: by Guest Blogger Pat

I live in a very tiny village in the midst of farming community. It is also the home to a small college so the population runs the gambit from “landed gentry” to near homeless, with every kind of socioeconomic layer in between.

One of the great equalizers is the town dump which is open every Saturday. (Being a small town, we have no public trash pick-up). A premiere attraction of the dump is that ones sees the entire panoply of our community – professors to janitors – each week and it offers an ideal opportunity to catch up on the local gossip. Just today during my seven minutes at the dump I saw nine friends.

From rusted-out trucks to shiny Volvos
.
As a widow in my 60’s, I could easily justify hiring someone to pick up my trash, but I find a great satisfaction is sorting, packing and hauling it myself. We are very recycle-oriented here in New York State, so we have separate bins for paper, cardboard, cans and bottles, metal and plain old trash. My biggest challenge is to heft the trash bag (always the largest) into the trash smasher, as the opening is at eye level.

The guy who salvages the returnable beer cans--I keep him in pocket money
.
Driving home from the dump amidst the gorgeous fall farm scene overlooking beautiful Cayuga Lake, I pondered why these trips gave me such satisfaction beyond the simple physical accomplishment noted above.

Cayuga Lake

I realized that the shedding of ones empty beer cans, read papers, and empty food packages at the end of each week signals a new beginning—all my containers at home are now empty waiting to be filled anew.
.
If only we had a place to dump our hurt feelings, disagreements, aches and pains, and stresses at the end of each week how peaceful our lives would be.