My granddaughter Myah was sitting with me in the great chair her mother had bought for me, slowly unwrapping a Reese’s miniature peanut butter cup, the chocolate that is one of our indulgences. We were watching a YouTube Kids’ video on my iPad, and 4.10-year-old Myah, without looking at me, passed the outer wrapping of the candy to me, saying, “Trash Man.” When we were roommates, she had become accustomed to my insistence that she give me discarded papers so that I could trash them. I did not want her lifting the lid to the can, so I became the trash man. I’m not sure when she officially gave me the name, but she is quite comfortable with the designation. All the bits of trash that result from her consumption of candy, juice boxes and scissor work on scrap paper are handed to the “Trash Man” for disposal.
Trash Man is an ironic name for me, since I throw nothing away. Well, true trash gets the boot, but rarely, anything else. I have bits and pieces of things that are 40 years old, including typewritten papers from my time in college in 1983. I have a note written by my youngest daughter that is probably 25 years old. I will turn over the compost pile of my life and find something that I cannot remember collecting. At times, I think that my children will slap their heads in frustration, trying to figure out why Dad had this rock, or his job performance appraisal from 1985, and his tax returns from 1993. They will not question why I have so many books, though they may be slightly amused to find duplicates of Frank McCourt’s “Teacher Man,” and Kent Haruf’s “Eventide.” They will also understand the rattling in the metal 35mm film canister labeled “Ra ∞ Shine’s baby teeth,” and the two plastic baggies, one with “Lauren’s birth hat” marked on it, and the other, “Myah’s birth hat.” And the desktop file labeled “Imani,” filled with every note that granddaughter ever gave me.
One of my earliest interactions with my next-door neighbor was at the two-car garage that abutted the trash can area of our building. I told her that she did not have to worry about taking her bin to the curb for trash pick-up: I would do that for her. Barbara Bayliff placed her hand on her hip, tilted her head to the right and with mock sternness, told me, “You’re not the boss of me.” My daughter and granddaughter were witnesses to that exchange, and Lauren was giggling with joy to see her father getting dressed down for having seized control of the trash can. One day, another neighbor rang my doorbell and I when I answered it, she gave me a cup of minestrone soup. She declined my invitation to come in; she had just come from my next-door neighbor’s house. Barbara’s back was paining her, and she had stopped by to assist and gift her and was taking a bag of trash to the can. (Or “bin,” if you’re British.)
When I visit with my eldest child in New Jersey, I tackle her kitchen trash can, swollen with the detritus from two adults, two teen children, and a dog. I replace the errant bits that have escaped the container, line the can with a fresh bag and trundle both trash and recycling bags out to the great bins in the courtyard of their apartment complex. But when I return home, I am also content to sit with Myah, and accept her gifts of trash for her “Trash Man.”
cjon3acd@att.net