dumpster philosophy

The aroma of ripe garbage pushes my philosophical button every time I take the trash to the dumpster.
As I toss the black plastic bags over the green metal edge, I realize again that “All men are created equal.”
Where else but at the dumpster do women in business suits, ragged jean clad teenagers and hunters dressed fit to kill come together for the same reason? Dressed in grubbies, I did synchronized tosses with a well-groomed business executive. He had to take his garbage out of his car, just like me, one sack at time.
All are equal, but some read better. Beneath the mandate to “Put trash inside the dumpster” are worn-out tricycles, last year’s clothes and broken furniture. They lay there like so many offerings to idols in the Orient.
As I drive into town, the offerings are waiting to be taken up by the ‘dumpster god.’ When I return they are gone. Caught  up into ‘dumpster heaven,” I supposed until a friend took her garage sale leftovers to the dumpsters. instantly the leftovers were besieged. The ‘dumpster gods’ received only a cloud of dust as those who came to give, took instead.
Now that’s recycling in action!
Recycling. Yes, I thought about that as I heaved my bag of mixed trash over the green metal sides. I thought about it enough to wish the recycling bins were located at the same site instead of a special trip to the north side of town.
Maybe if recycling were encouraged that way, I might make a greater effort to please my ecologically minded son. When he comes home from college, I flunk “Trash sorting.”
Have you had your garbage graded recently?
“Mom! These wilted lettuce leaves belong to the compost heap. The newspapers can be recycled. Crush the cans and wash out the aluminum pie tines. Get with it, Mom!”
I try, but I haven’t made the grade, yet.
When the teenaged drivers are home, I lose some opportunities to philosophize. One of the rites of passage to adulthood involves the pronouncement, “You there, in the Lazy Boy chair. Load the garbage into the car and take it to the dumpster.”
The trip always takes more time, gas and wear on the care when a teen drives – but such a move up into the world of adult responsibility! I should have taken pictures of his first time to drive broken eggshells and empty ketchup bottles to the dumpster.
How quickly they do grow up.
Another of my philosophical questions at the dumpster is the eternal, “Why? Why do I now pay a monthly fee to the county to haul trash to the dumpster, when I did it for free years ago? What would happen if I didn’t pay? Would they take out my sacks of garbage and bring them back to my garage?”
Startled at the thought, I philosophically label it the cost of my “equal citizenship” and hastily write out another check. That small trip may trigger my philosophical button, but I really have much nicer ways to engage it.
Which is ‘why’ when the college men come home this weekend! I can sit in the Lazy Boy while they take Philosophy 101 at the dumpster.