I love garbage day. It hasn’t always been that way, but you know how it goes. We get older and things change.
I spent most of my life detesting that chore even when we lived in the city and the trash was collected right outside my back door. When we moved to the country, it was worse. Two hundred and forty four steps of rough driveway separate my house from the road where the bags were
picked up, and for 244 steps (or some multiple of that for multiple trips) I cursed my garbage-induced gag reflex. I was always glad at the end of that piece of unpleasantness that another one like it was a full week away – or more if someone else would perform that vile chore. It didn’t help that we were charged an arm and a leg for some company to send their over-sized truck from the city to the middle of nowhere to pick up our three or four bags. I understood, though. We do live in
Writing that big check every three months still made me sad, I have to admit, especially after it was just the two of us at home and we didn’t generate nearly as much to carry out.
Ah, but life changes and so do our paradigms.
I smile all the way and back.
Leaving the house and heading to WhiteHall Community Center