Trash talking on a Wednesday

IT WAS AN EARLY WEDNESDAY EVENING. I know this to be a fact because I was preparing to snake up my snow-glazed driveway into the garage and was prepared to do so in what has become a routine at this time of day.  Neither snow nor sunshine is not a factor. Either edge my tired Mercury to the side of the road, or make an S-shaped maneuver around the obstacle and nose into the garage.

Trash day in Indianapolis. Today, the heavy-duty container stood as upright as Patton reviewing an Army parade right in the center and entrance of my 100-foot gravel driveway. I sighed some choice “Blood-and-Guts” words as I reconnoitered around it, parked the car and did my solemn duty. Retrieve the empty canister and drag it back toward the house.

With all the convenient advances the city’s Department of Public Works has made for its citizens, this one still amazes me. Nearly a year ago, me and my neighbors were generously supplied with a 96-gallon container as the required repository for our weekly terrestrial flotsam and jetsam. These things are nearly big enough to hold the Health Care Reform, Mormon Tabernacle Choir and all of the hate-filled signage of the Westboro Baptist Church

We had been nicely advised in a note from Hizzoner Greg Ballard to place them curbside – away from driveway – as a convenience for pickup. For you see, Indianapolis has a fleet of automated trash trucks that dumps our detritus. However, there are occasions when the work has to be done by hand.

Begrudge me a moment a long-ago memory from my reporter days in Mount Vernon, Ind., when I was ambitious, occasionally sparked by a creative thought and was motivated to pitch a feature story to my editor. See, I had this thought how cool it would be to spend a shift with the local garbage collection guys, riding the back end of belching truck/compactor. My sadistic boss agreed.

So, I spent a day with trash truck dudes, lending a hand with the cans and mounds of nauseating, slimy bags. Nasty work picking up after our fellow human beings, isn’t it? Along the reeking route, we sometimes discovered something usable or interesting – a piece of furniture, wood, art. These were set aside in a separate compartment. Interestingly enough, there was money to be mined. Scarf them up, too.

It was an interesting experience. I recall my fellow reporters finding reasons to leave the office after I returned immediately to file my story.

What I received most from this was a great respect for the guys who do the dirty jobs most of us avoid. They were a gruff and profane crew (probably why I admired them so much), offering colorful commentary about their work. And I noticed, despite the fast pace expected of them, they generally put the cans near where they found them before moving a feet forward to their next stop.

I remember asking one of the crew what they did with something they couldn’t take. “We just leave it where the hell it is.”

That thought propels me back to the present. In this dazzling age of automation and in situations where human hands sometimes are forced to take over, how hard can it be to leave something where you found it or, at worst, put it back where you found it? Seems like a good lesson to learn about how we treat Mom Nature and the environment we share on this mortal coil.

But I guess such an endeavor is too much to ask from some. And I suppose it’s rather amusing to envision creating a slalom course for some suburban knucklehead to dodge on a Wednesday evening.