Telly, faithful canine companion, and his fearless sidekick — that would be me — have our weekly routines.
Chores that have to be done on a weekly basis tend to be more exciting than the daily ones. Mowing the lawn, laundry and trips to the transfer station fall into this category.
Telly doesn’t particularly care for the lawn mower and barks when the tractor takes me out of sight around the corner of the house. I don’t think he understands laundry; I’m not sure I do either. Pick up the basket in the bedroom, carry it down to the cellar, stuff it into a machine and leave. Come back, take it out of the machine and stuff it into the machine next to it and leave. Come back, put it back in the basket and carry it back up to the bedroom.
Not much entertainment there for a male human, let alone a male canine.
This leaves the trip to the transfer station as the highlight of our week, pitiful as that may sound. It has taken many years and constant corrections and coaching from The Queen of our castle to get me accustomed to saying the words “transfer station.” It is, was and always will be “The Dump.”
I will call it the transfer station in polite company but while my mouth may voice the politically correct name, I’m mentally calling it The Dump. It technically is a place where we transfer the garbage and cast-offs of our daily living from our homes to holding containers that are then taken off to a place of permanent placement, hopefully called The Dump.
I miss The Dump of my younger years. It was a place of excitement and discovery. We are losing track of our garbage and just what we are throwing out. We’ve oversanitized the whole process.
Messing with garbage is something that isn’t high on folks’ priority lists. Most of us drop it in the garbage can and never see it again, we haul the can to the roadside and pay the professionals to deal with it. I kind of like knowing what we’re discarding.
The household garbage goes into the can in the garage during the week but then gets a second viewing when I put it in the garbage bag for the trip to the transfer station. It really isn’t as disgusting as it may seem. There are a lot of fond memories there. Last Sunday’s chicken dinner comes to mind as I look at the forensic remains of the former fowl, coffee grounds remind me of the week’s pleasure of the warm cups of brew that kick-started my mornings.
Telly likes the garbage, a lot of good sniffs there. I wonder if he’s having culinary memories, too.
Sorting out the recyclables takes a while. Telly likes the clinks and clanks as I fill the plastics bag, the metal bag and the glass bag. We stuff the garbage bag and recycling bags into the back of Ota The Toyota and off we go. The guys at the transfer station are old friends and sometimes we see people we know, making it a pleasant chore.
Everything goes into its proper place, everything is neat and tidy. I still miss the old dump. You could explore the piles, it was an adventure. I frequently came home with more than I left with.
The Queen likes the transfer station better than The Dump.
Thought for the week — Red meat is not bad for you. Fuzzy green meat is bad for you.
Until next week, may you and yours be happy and well.
Reach Dick Brooks at Whittle12124@yahoo.com.