I don’t have my trash picked up. Don’t worry, I’m no hoarder. Like any boy, I have always had a strange fascination with garbage trucks and like to see them crunch stuff to bits. It’s just that our county built a recycling center a mile from our house and I can carry my own trash there and pay fifty cents a bag.

Better than the savings, I get to put all my own stuff into dumpsters to be recycled – including glass. While I drop the aluminum, cardboard, and plastic, I throw the glass as if I am a closer trying to mop up the last batter of the World Series. Sometimes I throw it so hard it disintegrates in mid-air! I look for big, unbroken wine jugs to hurl my jars into so the explosion is MAGNIFIED! It never gets old.

On any given Saturday, you can find a few old men standing idly around the glass bin watching the action. They’ll compliment a good shot and give the stink-eye to the poor soul who can’t break his bottle. And, oh the jeering they give the slacker who just flops his recycling in with no attempt to pulverize.

A few months ago, there was a pack of boy scouts who must have been doing community service. Of course, most were hovering around the glass bin begging for projectiles then hooting and hollering with every shot. One little fellow must have been stationed with paper because he stood dejectedly beside the quietest bin in the place.

I had a few magazines to deposit, but took a little something extra his way. It was an odd feeling holding out a brown bottle to a minor, but I wish you could have seen his eyes light up. He knew paper was his job, but didn’t turn down the gift and hustled across the way to the glass bin with an excited swagger. The scouts parted as he proudly lifted the bottle and promptly missed the entire dumpster. I have no idea how that happened, it was kind of a ‘broad side of the barn’ miss that immediately let on why he had been relegated to paper. Poor kid.

He lowered his head and began the walk of shame back to the non-breakable.

Good thing I had a box full. I doled them out one by one and he broke the rest until I had no more.

This past Saturday I had to go early and the place was nearly empty save an elderly couple recycling together. They were so cute – kind of a ‘those who recycle together, stay together’ thing. They separated – she walked to paper while he took a large box the other direction. His load seemed heavy and I offered to help but was quickly rebuffed.

“You kidding me? I’ve been saving up,” he replied as he lifted his first salvo out.

I couldn’t help smiling as a watched him hurl bottle after bottle to their demise. When he ran out of ammo, he winked at me, patted my back and said, “It never gets old,” before returning slowly to his car where his wife rolled her eyes.

Women may never understand, but he’s right, it never gets old.

* * * * * * * * * *

Photo credit to spDuchamp under the creative common license

I remember when we worked with the builder to draw up the house plans. After having the master bedroom over the garage in our first house, we decided to separate the two when we built our current home. I’m glad of that – especially since we now have teenagers who come and go long after I’ve retired. There might be someone out there who is less than happy about the distance between the two, though.

A humid day brought out the potential flaw in our design.

Two things of note:

1. Running makes me sweat profusely.
2. I’ve been repeatedly warned not to drag my sweaty clothes across the house leaving a slug-trail of stench behind me.

That brings us to a recent Sunday. It was a hot day – the kind of day that is so humid you start to leak just from the exertion of crossing the threshold. I tried to beat the heat as best I could by hitting the pavement for a few miles before the sun came up. When I returned home, I entered through the garage and closed the door behind me.

I would like to state that at this point, I am inside my house – the garage being an enclosed extension of said domicile. Having had no cool down, I was still sweating at a champion’s pace. So I removed my hat and shirt, placing them neatly on the hooks provided to allow the moisture to wick in the garage. Sadly, I noticed a puddle still forming underneath me which inspired a moment of brilliance consisting of three observations: Short walk, dark house, family still asleep.

You get the idea. I made a very aerodynamic trek to clean up – through the kitchen, den, bedroom, all the way to the shower. Afterward, I felt much better and pointed my fully-clothed self toward the kitchen for coffee.

I am normally a rather unobservant bloke, but I did happen to notice an obstruction just outside our back door. A table had been moved and something wrapped in foil sat on top. Upon further inspection, it was a loaf of bread. Written on the foil were the words, “You are on God’s Mind. Jeremiah 29:11.”

HMMMM…..

During this past year of struggle and grieving, we have received many anonymous cards and gifts left on our porch from kind and caring friends.

However, on this occasion, I had to wonder at the timing. When was the bread placed on the porch? I know it wasn’t there when I left for my run. I hope it was left while I was out running or showering. But there is the possibility that the kind person with nothing but good intent instantly regretted leaving this gift.

Loaves of bread have been used Biblically to feed 4000, 5000, name the ultimate traitor, sustain prophets, and now…  Maybe this loaf was given as a warning from God himself. It was very good bread! Kind of his way of saying, “I see you – too much of you! I had to make clothes for Adam, but you have retail. Get thee to a seamstress!”

 

So if it was God, Thank you for providing me my daily bread.

If it was an encouraging friend, I would like to point out that I was in my own house. And while I might be on God’s mind, good luck getting that image out of yours.