The weather is always terrible on recycling day. It could be a still, sunny Wednesday, but come Thursday morning, ice and strong winds batter our curb. At least, that’s how it feels.
Recycling is something of an ongoing problem for us to begin with. Trash pickup comes weekly, and our bin is generally half-full at most. Recycling, however, is only collected every other week, and, especially around the holidays, our recycling bin gets too full. Before someone argues that recycling is a scam, our recycling is mostly cardboard, tin cans, and glass jars, which are recycled at much higher rates and more easily than plastic. So, anyway…we are working on overall waste.
We missed a recycling pickup when we traveled for the holidays, but I broke down all the boxes and tucked them off to one side of the bin, filling the rest with cans and jars. The height of some boxes meant that the lid would not close completely, but when I dragged the trash and recycling to the curb, I felt satisfied that the backlog would be gone.
Then came the wind.
I tried to write, but all the added work from the freeze last week, plus a cold I caught off the preschooler, pulled my attention in too many directions for my essay about chickens to draw my brain into deep focus. Grumpy, I stepped away from the desk to cluck around the kitchen. As I refilled my coffee, a flash of red out the window caught my eye. It took a moment for me to register the significance of the Recess can resting along the fenceline. Then, I ran to the front window. I thought the recycling bin was too heavy to blow over, but the cold wind rushing down from the foothills tossed both trash and recycling on their sides like they were playthings. The trash was empty enough that nothing spilled out. Our recycling, however, was everywhere.
Screaming, cursing, I threw on my coat and shoved my bare feet into boots to chase down the boxes, newspapers, and cans.
The alpacas watched as I collected scattered envelopes, wrestled with flat cardboard boxes, and tried to hold as many cans as I could at one time. I saw that a box and a few cans had blown into the pasture, and Moira and Clementine sniffed at them curiously.
Much of the debris settled in the tangle of leaves and bushes in the corner of the house by the garage, but I could see paper blowing down the street.
Our house sits on a curve in a road that is busier than it used to be, and on which people drive too-big cars too fast, passing on the shoulder when they shouldn’t. It is still a popular route for cyclists, but it no longer feels very safe. I was thankful that I at least found myself chasing boxes during a quieter time of day. A woman drove by, saw me struggling, and circled back to ask if I needed help. I was thankful for her kindness, but of course I told her I was fine. As soon as she was out of sight, a blast of wind rushed through, tearing the stack of cardboard out of my hands, sending pieces sailing down the street.
I got smart. With snow cresting over the top of my boots, I ran back to the garage and retrieved the wagon, reminding myself how good my life is along the way.
As I worked my way up our fenceline and the neighbor's, I collected other people’s half-full White Claw cans, trash from fast food meals, and plastic Snapple bottles. I fumed, muttering to myself about how there’s a special place in hell for litterers. I wished I'd grabbed gloves. And put on socks.
As another gust chilled my ears, I remembered that, when I howled at our overturned recycling bin, I had seen at least two trashcans on their sides up the street. While I worried that a box bearing my name and address would land in someone else’s hedges, I could not be sure that this litter had not blown down the street from a neighbor’s house, mixing with my own mess. I, therefore, should not blow my stack.
I still felt salty as I heaved a heavy log onto the recycling bin—once again full, though no longer organized. I rolled my eyes at the dog, who had slept warm in bed while I stomped around in the snow. I never got my focus on writing, instead scowling out the window every half hour until the recycling truck finally came that afternoon. I fretted about the reach of my trash, scanning the roadside as I drove to and from my daughter’s school. I tried not to make broad generalizations about the trash mixed in with mine. I was trying very hard to do the right thing and had no reason to believe otherwise of the people in my path.
Except for those who throw alcoholic beverages out of a moving vehicle. That’s pretty terrible.
When I picked my daughter up, I could see from the school gate that she was crying, upset over her own deeply felt disappointments. On the way home, as she calmed down, I told her, "I had a frustrating morning too," and explained about the recycling. "Will you help me look as we drive home?" We did not see any more recycling, and once inside, we shared some hugs.
It was a teachable moment for her, but also for me.
I should have put the damn log on top of the recycle bin in the first place.
How awful!🤬
I could tell!