My friends roll their eyes when I tell them, joyfully, that I have been to the landfill. What is wrong with them? This weekend, I went twice! Two load of brush, branches, leaves, limbs and vines. Every trip to the landfill means hours of work and tangible production.
In my childhood, the landfill was called the dump. My dad would occasionally bring us with him when he hauled a load of junk there. It was a strange and mysterious place, filled with trash and treasures. You just never knew what you might see in the piles of debris. It smelled bad at the dump, and dad always warned of the hazards of stepping on broken glass and sharp metal. Hundreds of gulls circled above as they looked for their own treasures. I don't recall salvaging anything from the "discard pile" but it was amazingly intriguing to look, just in case you might find something wonderful.
Part of the fun was just going somewhere with my dad. The daughters of the family were often delegated to do the "girl" chores at home. So, going to the dump felt like a privilege! Weird to think of it that way now, but I still get a little thrill going there.
It is somehow very satisfying to get sweaty and dirty filling up the back of the truck, and then driving to the dump with the windows open and the radio blaring. My friends don't know what they are missing!
