- April 26, 2024
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At the risk of drawing more ire from letter writers, I feel compelled to tell part two of the sad tale of my garbage can.
Each Monday night, I empty all the trash in the house, load the bags into my garbage can, and wheel it all to the end of the driveway. Every Tuesday while I’m at work, it is emptied. When you think about it, this is one of best things about living in 2013, rather than, say, 1413, when people used to have their own personal landfills behind their thatched-roof huts. When my garbage can starts to smell in the kitchen, I simply take it out. Back then, they simply got used to the flies and the plagues.
And yet, I find the bounce in my step has disappeared, and my exulting in the miracles of modernity has become subdued because when I bring my garbage can back into the garage, I notice that it looks a bit sadder each week. The plastic is torn a bit more. After many months of this, the sides are now wide open in flaps, like elephant ears.
Is there a garbage can slasher in my neighborhood? Are the garbage collectors so strong that when they lift the can they rip half the handle right off? Do I see a beaver’s teeth marks?
My detective work is all an attempt, of course, to avoid admitting my mistake in buying the cheapest garbage can on the planet. You might say that it should come as no surprise that it’s struggling, considering it’s not much thicker than a plastic milk jug.
But, as a man known far and wide for his frugality, I must say that it has made me think of an even cheaper alternative: How long could I get away with my own medieval landfill in my backyard?
