Soucheray's column made me think about these matters. The picture of Joe peeking through the blinds to see how his recycling efforts were received made me chuckle.
I have bristled at those admonising notes they leave behind. Usually from the trash collectors, we've been really lucky with the recyclers. A "sustainable new urbanist" could describe my wife. I see the point, but don't get quite as exercised as she does.Complaince with others expectations has never haunted me, or even vexed me so much.
Joe's column about the recycling reminded me of an episode my late father experienced on the cusp of trash handlings modern era. You might not remember hardware stores use to sell metal trash cans with holes to fascilitate burning. Most people burned some if not all of their trash. My father was your classic weekend alcoholic who faithfully executed my mothers "honey-do" lists so that he could drink in peace. The chore he actually enjoyed was burning trash in the trash can with holes. He'd tend the fires so that it burned very impressively, and he'd sit nursing dozens of cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. This was the early 60's in Racine Wisconsin. One particular fire he had going reminded us of the Buddhist monk that set himself alight and was prominent on the national news at the time.
One day some self righteous Dane (Racine has the largest population of tea totalling Danes in north America, although there's no shortage of drunk Danes either.) decided that burning trash was antithetical to what he'd read in Rachel Carson's tome "Silent Spring." So the city passed a ban on trash burning. My father continued to burn his trash on Saturdays. A snoopy neighbor lady ratted him out. The fire department visited my father every Saturday for the next several weeks.
My father argued with them, they cajoled my dad, it got testier each week.
Finally the commander of our local fire engine told my dad that if he burned trash the following week, "it would be dealt with." My dad fulminated and cursed and in his plaid shorts, and argyle kneesocks, and scuffed penny loafers shook his fist at the departing fire engine.
The next week my dad pulled out of the garage that weeks cumbustibles and bent over to start the fire with his zippo that he carried through Africa during World War II. There was a breeze as there always is in Racine, hard by the shores of Lake Michigan, and dad opened a can of PBR, and lit a cigarette, when, as promised the red Racine Fire Department engine rounded the corner. My father ignored them till the captain got out, handed my dad a citation, then mounted the engine and manned the water cannon. The confidence drained from dad's face. Before he could utter a word the water jet hit my dads burn can, and it and my dad when shooting across the driveway and up against the garage. My dad was one of the few white men of that era who completely empathized with the civil rights protesters who were hosed by the fire department down south, who were competeing with burning monks on our nightly news back then. I pointed out to my father in my insouciance of youth, "It could have been worse dad, they could have set the dogs on you."
Professional garbage sorting, and the era of garbology was upon us, recycling, and hand wringing about recycling was just around the corner.
Dad died in '85. I often wonder what he'd make of the world since 1985. I think he'd get a kick out of it. I wonder what he'd make of http://www.storyofstuff.com/
