Every year our little town has a week where the city picks up unwanted items that have been left on the city streets. It usually happens in early April and is the social event of the season. It's even bigger than the return of the buzzards in June.
To me, it's five weeks of non-stop entertainment.
Although it occurs in April, people start piling their junk in the streets in late February. This is when the drama occurs. Normally by the time April comes, most of the trash has been picked over by the town scroungers (yes, I am one of them) and has disappeared. In short, our town has the biggest garage sale in the world....and all of the merchandise is free.
An adventure on every street.
To enhance my "life in the Rockies" experience I walk the dogs twice a day, seeking out uncharted territories to experience new adventures in refuse. There is no stone unturned in my quest for new and exciting garbage. Most of my friends agree that last year was a particularly exciting year and that there were ample opportunities to experience something that is uniquely our town. On top of that, scoring a toilet seat in fair condition is a bonus. For this year's upcoming event, I'm even considering writing a newsletter, pinpointing on a map where the best trash is located.
Garbage is not created equal.
Of course, some people's trash is better than others'. I must have some pretty good trash. Most everything I put out for removal last year was gone within minutes. The old front door was gone by the time I walked to the back door. The Styrofoam insulation was an overnight sensation. The cabinet: gone with the wind. And to the person who took the vacuum cleaner, my apologies; it hasn't worked in years.
A feeling of remorse after someone has taken an item.
I put an old whiskey barrel out in the street. It's wood was rotten to the core and covered with maggots from years of being buried in the garden. It was gone in seconds.
But why?
What am I missing?
Perhaps I threw away the most collectible maggot-infested whiskey barrel that ever lived, thus making it a valuable piece of property. Maybe it was sold on eBay for a small fortune. Maybe if you looked at the decayed wood there was a Ben Franklin autograph. Or, better still, it was a remnant of Noah's ark.
I knew I should have kept it. Crap!
Unfortunately, many people do not share my appreciation of the spring trash removal.
To the untrained eye, a sofa on the street is just a sofa on the street. To the trained eye, however, it is the end of an era. Thinking of all of the many family members who have perched their asses on the plaid sofa after an ample Thanksgiving dinner brings a bit of mist to the eye. For the flowered sofa a few blocks east I can picture Uncle Fred and Aunt Gertie sitting beside one another, enjoying reruns of the Lawrence Welk show before having their glass of milk and retiring for the evening. How many bowls of popcorn did the kids spill on that sofa? And, if you were to remove the cushions, how many bowlfuls would still be there?
And one mustn't forget the washing machine a few blocks south, so broken down and decrepit that it stands nary a chance of being saved by even the most desperate scrounger. How many pairs of jeans have been bounced and jostled within the bowels of its mechanical core until the dirt couldn't take it anymore and relinquished its hold on the stubborn denim? Alas, the dirty denims finally won, thus leaving a once proud machine to the shame of the street curb.
Mark your calendars.
Trash week is only 75 days away. Gentlemen, start your engines.
Readers, enjoy your day.
To me, it's five weeks of non-stop entertainment.
Although it occurs in April, people start piling their junk in the streets in late February. This is when the drama occurs. Normally by the time April comes, most of the trash has been picked over by the town scroungers (yes, I am one of them) and has disappeared. In short, our town has the biggest garage sale in the world....and all of the merchandise is free.
An adventure on every street.
To enhance my "life in the Rockies" experience I walk the dogs twice a day, seeking out uncharted territories to experience new adventures in refuse. There is no stone unturned in my quest for new and exciting garbage. Most of my friends agree that last year was a particularly exciting year and that there were ample opportunities to experience something that is uniquely our town. On top of that, scoring a toilet seat in fair condition is a bonus. For this year's upcoming event, I'm even considering writing a newsletter, pinpointing on a map where the best trash is located.
Garbage is not created equal.
Of course, some people's trash is better than others'. I must have some pretty good trash. Most everything I put out for removal last year was gone within minutes. The old front door was gone by the time I walked to the back door. The Styrofoam insulation was an overnight sensation. The cabinet: gone with the wind. And to the person who took the vacuum cleaner, my apologies; it hasn't worked in years.
A feeling of remorse after someone has taken an item.
I put an old whiskey barrel out in the street. It's wood was rotten to the core and covered with maggots from years of being buried in the garden. It was gone in seconds.
But why?
What am I missing?
Perhaps I threw away the most collectible maggot-infested whiskey barrel that ever lived, thus making it a valuable piece of property. Maybe it was sold on eBay for a small fortune. Maybe if you looked at the decayed wood there was a Ben Franklin autograph. Or, better still, it was a remnant of Noah's ark.
I knew I should have kept it. Crap!
Unfortunately, many people do not share my appreciation of the spring trash removal.
To the untrained eye, a sofa on the street is just a sofa on the street. To the trained eye, however, it is the end of an era. Thinking of all of the many family members who have perched their asses on the plaid sofa after an ample Thanksgiving dinner brings a bit of mist to the eye. For the flowered sofa a few blocks east I can picture Uncle Fred and Aunt Gertie sitting beside one another, enjoying reruns of the Lawrence Welk show before having their glass of milk and retiring for the evening. How many bowls of popcorn did the kids spill on that sofa? And, if you were to remove the cushions, how many bowlfuls would still be there?
And one mustn't forget the washing machine a few blocks south, so broken down and decrepit that it stands nary a chance of being saved by even the most desperate scrounger. How many pairs of jeans have been bounced and jostled within the bowels of its mechanical core until the dirt couldn't take it anymore and relinquished its hold on the stubborn denim? Alas, the dirty denims finally won, thus leaving a once proud machine to the shame of the street curb.
Mark your calendars.
Trash week is only 75 days away. Gentlemen, start your engines.
Readers, enjoy your day.
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