I am often sitting at my sewing machine when the trash truck rolls up the road. It backs in, since the distance is a single block and there is not room to turn around. Hence the need for the beeper that translates to "Get out of my way! I can't see much and I might flatten you."

 

Lately I have been cleaning out, and the accumulation of junk has increased. In spite of modest efforts to reduce our footprint by choosing reusable bags, composting, and recycling, there were piles of stuff that I could not repurpose. Broken frames, toppled trophies Ben got for showing up, and cracked flower pots sat waiting for their fate. There were bags of fabric scraps that had burst out of their baskets, and needed to retire. Since the sheer volume was triple the usual amount of one or two bins, I felt an urge to run out and palm the workers a ten for their nonjudgmental acceptance. At least I never heard them curse the inhabitants of the large white house. Not only that they showed up on schedule to do it again a week later. 

 

The street that my daughter lives on in Philly is narrow. In fact the normal trash truck cannot navigate it without ripping off the side mirrors of every parked car, so the city saw fit to buy a small one used exclusively for these situations. My granddaughter has befriended the trash men, and waves enthusiastically as they drive by. Sometimes she point out the cans, purely out of excitement that here they are taking her garbage. They enjoy this. Sometimes they honk. I like that a chore that is admittedly mundane can bring them all joy.

 

A friend reminded me that we are not in charge. To illustrate our status, he uses the corporate ladder. 

 

"You are not the CEO. You are not even in middle management. You are the janitor. Take out the trash. Do it faithfully, but without any illusions of advancement. God has the strategic plan in place without help from you."

 

The other day John and I had a lovely evening, enjoying the sunset and conversation. As we rinsed dishes and put away food, scummy thoughts popped up in my head. Criticisms of how he does or doesn't close cupboards, or finished the last brownie that I had intended for myself showed up with the regularity of the sanitation schedule.

 

But there was no imperative that I give voice to such rubbish. All I needed to do was get rid of it.  

 

Plus its absence left room for joy.