The Sweet Life of Trash Picking

It’s a sign of something that I want to start keeping garbage bags and disposable gloves in my car so I can swerve over to the side of the road and pick up trash whenever the spirit moves me.

It seems like a very elderly thing to do.

“Who is that old woman? I always see her out here picking up trash.”

“No clue. There’s another old lady who pushes a baby stroller around the neighborhood all day. Loads the thing up with garbage bags and books so it’s super heavy. The trash lady’s probably her sister.”

Today was pick up the trash day along Milwaukee’s rivers. Volunteers were given t-shirts, disposable gloves, and giant black garbage bags and sent forth. I worked my way along a ridge overlooking the Menomonee River. Down below, I could see piles of beer bottles, ragged t-shirts, cardboard, and mysteries. I wanted to, but I didn’t climb down the hill. I’m not surefooted anymore. I know that much. I had to stay in my lane at the top of the hill and pick up the itty-bits, smashed plastic liquor bottles and the like. It was okay.

Anyway, picking up trash is very gratifying. And probably a metaphor for something really important. Like dealing with the detritus of life, all the dropped balls and lost jobs and wounded people. Or proving one’s continued value on the planet by making everything tidier and more orderly. Old people love having a place for everything and everything in its place, it makes it easier on the heirs.

I ramble. Suffice to say, picking up trash was an oddly elevating experience. So much so that I’m just going to carry on, comparisons to the baby stroller pusher notwithstanding.

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Photo by Tommaso Pecchioli on Unsplash