The Way We Were

Gather ’round, children, let me tell you how it used to be. A friend was reminiscing about growing up next to the city dump and the adventures he and his friends had. His stories had me wishing I had been a boy like him – or even a girl who wasn’t creeped out by things likely to be found in a stinky pile of junk. What fun!

He regaled everyone at the coffee table about his adventures, especially the day after a new batch of trash and garbage was added to the pile that was basically in his backyard. He didn’t say how old he was, but it seemed appropriate for a 12- or 13-year-old boy to not be squeamish about digging through heaven knows what in search of treasures. He brought home all manner of metals, wires and hunks of wood and let his imagination run wild inventing gizmos and whatchacallits.

And on a really good day (for a 13-year-old), he might unearth an issue or two of Playboy magazine, which he carefully tucked under his mattress, as any self-respecting young fella was wont to do.

His stories called up a memory of mine from my high school days and an old boyfriend who took me to visit his dad, who worked for the Cleveland Sanitation Department – or Department of Sanitation, same thing. I’m not sure exactly what his dad’s responsibilities were, as I only remember walking into a multistory, wide-open space where his dad sat on a folding chair at an open doorway, where I presume he got fresh air, and trucks drove in to unload their contents onto a humongous pile of trash and garbage that appeared to nearly reach the ceiling and stunk to high heaven. The image sticks with me even after all these years. Fortunately, the aroma didn’t.

I like our friend’s story about rooting through trash better. I considered perhaps both piles were combined for disposal. But the local dump he told us about was eventually buried right where it was, and using his finger and his imagination, he drew out exactly where, along I-71 in Cleveland, you can still see a very large grass-covered hill where, if you dig deep enough, you might find the remains of whatever didn’t decompose over the past 60 or so years.

Ol’ Bill and I make a trip to our local recycling center as needed, where we’ve been trained to separate trash from garbage, but now it doesn’t seem to matter that much from what we’ve been told. Still, being the good stewards that we are, we do our best to keep even traces of foodstuffs out of the green bins.

There was a time – and I’ve got a long list in front of me, but I will refer you to your grandparents, or maybe your great-grandparents. Ask them what life was like back in the olden days of the 1950s going into the ’60s. What did they do before water came in bottles? How did they cook without microwave ovens? What was life like before plastic, for heaven’s sake? Before remote controls? Before computers? Before Kleenex, for crying out loud? Believe it or not, Kleenex hasn’t always been around.

They’ll tell you about cellophane and cotton. About making their own coffee and darning their own socks. And ironing. And sitting around the radio as a family listening to comedy or cowboy stories. That goes way back. They may tell you about Pac-Man. And Blockbuster.

My generation, for the most part, is being left in the dust of just how fast life is moving along these days. Even my most techy friends admit to having difficulty keeping up with the ever-changing electronic world of today. The world seems to be spinning out of control, and all we want to do is sit down and breathe.