I have a soft spot for garbage men. It all started when I was eating lunch with a good friend and looking out the kitchen window. I had a widow friend living across the street, and her home was in the line of sight. Our attention was diverted from the conversation as the garbage truck approached, a large, formal affair. The mechanical hand reached out to clasp the can and hefted it into the air. After unloading the junk inside, the hand jerked as it let down the can, and a shower of garbage flipped into the air, caught on the lid. As the crud rained down on the street, I imagined my elderly friend stooping down to clean up. But the truck stopped, and a small man in a blue suit stepped out and meticulously picked up each piece of refuse. Even down to a pile of grass clippings. My friend and I were amazed and quickly pulled out the phone book to call his supervisor. I hope he heard our raving compliments.
Another great garbage man we've had is our recycling man. He comes, without fail, around 7:00 a.m. on Friday morning, and since recycling pick-up is only every other week, I frequently forget to put out the trash. At the time, we were the only family on the street with recycling, so he had to come to our street especially for us. One week, I heard him coming and quickly ran out to the yard, still in my pajamas, and he waited while I placed the garbage can on the street. Two weeks later, when I forgot again, he got out of his truck and took the can to the curb himself. He helped us a number of times. His last time was a week ago. We were sitting on the couch doing our morning reading when I heard the truck and jumped up.
The garbage man was about to go on when he saw me and stopping, rolled down his window. "Just leave it on the sidewalk. I can get it there." The huge claw reached out to grab the can, and above the roar of the truck, the man kept talking. He was nice-looking with a dark beard and jolly eyes- just as I'd imagined. Santa in reverse- he who comes in the early morning hours to take your worst nightmares away! "This is my last week here working this city," he yelled. "Now that recycling is mandatory, I'm assigned to another area. I've been working here for years!" I waved good-bye, and as I ran into the house, I remembered my last days in an area of my mission, going around trying to say good-bye to all the people I had grown to love, and whose life would go on without a change when I was gone. There will still be a garbage man to pick up my trash, but it will be another. And my Fridays will be no different. But his will. And he, just like any other person, needs to know he is appreciated and say good-bye after his years of service. So let's hear it for the Friday morning garbage man.
We have avoided using our front door so that these little chickies could hatch. The mom sings a lot, but we haven't heard them peeping yet. They are obviously pooping though.
I have a soft spot for garbage men. It all started when I was eating lunch with a good friend and looking out the kitchen window. I had a widow friend living across the street, and her home was in the line of sight. Our attention was diverted from the conversation as the garbage truck approached, a large, formal affair. The mechanical hand reached out to clasp the can and hefted it into the air. After unloading the junk inside, the hand jerked as it let down the can, and a shower of garbage flipped into the air, caught on the lid. As the crud rained down on the street, I imagined my elderly friend stooping down to clean up. But the truck stopped, and a small man in a blue suit stepped out and meticulously picked up each piece of refuse. Even down to a pile of grass clippings. My friend and I were amazed and quickly pulled out the phone book to call his supervisor. I hope he heard our raving compliments.
A technological device breaks and we, the adults, curse and fume. For the kids, this is the luckiest break of the century. A rectangle with buttons on it! If I put it up near my ear, I look like Daddy!
