Don’t throw trim away, reuse it

Outside, the tires squeal from the garbage truck methodically driving down my street. Four men hop out and walk house to house, picking up the remnants from each home — banana peels, coffee grinds, junk mail and endless small cardboard containers I should be recycling.

If you’ve watched any type of crime drama, you know someone’s trash could hold a clue to their life. Maybe it could even solve a crime if one digs hard enough. That paper plate with chocolate crumbs could have the DNA needed; plug that in and let the science do its magic.

Early this morning I took out one more bag of trash. I always leave a grocery bag hanging on the door handle to throw in small things: yesterday’s coffee filter, the last half of a hardened doughnut. I stepped outside, bag in hand, and a coolness washed over me. The air hasn’t felt this fresh in a good minute, days even, and along with my cat, whom I just put outside, we stopped for a minute and felt the goodness.

A cleansing, if you will.

I looked up and down the street and proceeded to walk down to the trash can. After I’d placed it inside, I stopped to check my flowers in the morning dew. I’ve been tending them since spring — almost never missing a day of watering. The heat emanating from the concrete sidewalk will bake them if I don’t stay vigilant. They smiled up at me sweetly, but as I turned to open the door, I heard someone yell my name.

“Hi Missy!”

I was caught. The friendly neighbor boy down the street was riding his bike to work and had seen me. I waved and ducked inside, letting the smell of brewing coffee envelop me. I sat down with my orange, thrifted Walkie Talkie Coffee Shop mug and felt my skin tingle. It was the it’s-July-but-summer-is-half-over tingle. The cool morning air had hastened it.

George has been slowly, painstakingly gleaning wood from his collection that he moved from Holmes County to Stark County to use at the small garage he bought to redo. Every piece he fits in somewhere — a door frame, a windowsill — brings him great joy. I used to look at those pieces of wood and sternly tell him to get rid of them. You have too much, I would say, not even thinking of my 300-piece coffee cup collection, carefully curated and lined up in rows. He would laugh at my sternness and tell me he had a use for all of it.

The other day I went to see his garage and noted the progress he was so proud of. He wanted to show me several things he had built in. And when he did, I nearly cried. On an exterior door, he had built a door frame with wood that once graced the outside of our old house, the house number still partially visible. Inside on several window frames, he was building neat little extended sills — with wood salvaged from our old bed frame. My eyes pricked with tears, and for maybe the first time, I could see what he was doing. He was weaving our story into his new project, literal pieces of us.

Things I thought were trash.

I should know better because I love digging through trash and making it my treasure. Everyone does it differently, but George’s is construction materials. You can’t replace gorgeous, wide trims from old houses if you throw them away. They simply don’t make them anymore. And things I think aren’t ever going to be finished, well, they get done. Because he has a beautiful hand and vision.

My trash can has now been picked up and dumped, nothing left to do but put it away until next week. I’ll fill it slowly and methodically, making sure not to throw away anything that matters.

Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.