"My mother can spot 'quality items' set out for sanitation workers from a block away."
All of this talk about protecting our planet and changing our destinies with conservation and renewable energies has made me think about an under appreciated, almost never discussed, form of conservation, the time-honored tradition of trash picking. In its tamest form, it is the multitudes of Saturday morning warriors who head out to yard sales at 5:30 in the morning with their inked-up classifieds and their pockets full of one-dollar bills to pour over the estranged items of their neighbors.
The hardcore among them are not so socially acceptable. They evince the more literal sense of the word. They are the trash rooters and tend to operate in the shadows often in wee hours of the morning. Nonchalantly, they gaze at the treasures their neighbors have tossed out to the curb, coming to salvage them when no one is looking. My mother is their queen. When I was a child she would go through the little white wastebasket in my room, take items out and put them back where they were–a mostly dried-up ink pen, a stained t-shirt, unwanted knickknacks. She would say incredulously, “You’re throwing this out!”
My mother can spot “quality items” set out for sanitation workers from a block away. She has collected silver platters, dog houses and crates, and even a shower seat for my 85 year-old grandmother, a woman who has thousands of dollars in the bank, but washes and re-uses her paper towels and aluminum foil, and will eat lasagna with sour cream for dinner if she thinks either are likely to go to bad because “waste not want not.” Yes, my family has always been good stewards of our resources.
The morning my mother scored the shower seat was a usual one except that I was about eight months pregnant. On one of our regular yard-sale Saturday mornings, we pulled into her neighborhood and I immediately noticed a larger than average bounty by the road side.
“Oooh,” she said. “Is that a shower seat?” stopping the car. I gave a quick scan of the neighborhood, no one walking their dogs or babies; no one fetching their newspaper. I slid out of the car and waddled over to inspect the item. It was clean and undamaged. I gave my mother the thumbs up and began to dislodge it from the heap.
As I pulled it out, I noticed something move by the house. I looked up to see what appeared to the entire family standing on the front porch, staring at me, their mouths agape. I had a moment of panic and a choice to make. I could recoil, fain confusion, pretend to be taking a walk or calling my dog.
But, as I stood there in my Saturday morning sweat pants and t-shirt, with my mother behind me and my daughter still in the womb, I decided to embrace my heritage and my destiny. We trash pickers had been hiding in the shadows long enough.
I raised my head high, shower seat in hand, grinned and announced in my loudest, friendliest voice, “Good morning neighbor. I hope you don’t mind, this is a ’quality item.’”
All of this talk about protecting our planet and changing our destinies with conservation and renewable energies has made me think about an under appreciated, almost never discussed, form of conservation, the time-honored tradition of trash picking. In its tamest form, it is the multitudes of Saturday morning warriors who head out to yard sales at 5:30 in the morning with their inked-up classifieds and their pockets full of one-dollar bills to pour over the estranged items of their neighbors.
The hardcore among them are not so socially acceptable. They evince the more literal sense of the word. They are the trash rooters and tend to operate in the shadows often in wee hours of the morning. Nonchalantly, they gaze at the treasures their neighbors have tossed out to the curb, coming to salvage them when no one is looking. My mother is their queen. When I was a child she would go through the little white wastebasket in my room, take items out and put them back where they were–a mostly dried-up ink pen, a stained t-shirt, unwanted knickknacks. She would say incredulously, “You’re throwing this out!”
My mother can spot “quality items” set out for sanitation workers from a block away. She has collected silver platters, dog houses and crates, and even a shower seat for my 85 year-old grandmother, a woman who has thousands of dollars in the bank, but washes and re-uses her paper towels and aluminum foil, and will eat lasagna with sour cream for dinner if she thinks either are likely to go to bad because “waste not want not.” Yes, my family has always been good stewards of our resources.
The morning my mother scored the shower seat was a usual one except that I was about eight months pregnant. On one of our regular yard-sale Saturday mornings, we pulled into her neighborhood and I immediately noticed a larger than average bounty by the road side.
“Oooh,” she said. “Is that a shower seat?” stopping the car. I gave a quick scan of the neighborhood, no one walking their dogs or babies; no one fetching their newspaper. I slid out of the car and waddled over to inspect the item. It was clean and undamaged. I gave my mother the thumbs up and began to dislodge it from the heap.
As I pulled it out, I noticed something move by the house. I looked up to see what appeared to the entire family standing on the front porch, staring at me, their mouths agape. I had a moment of panic and a choice to make. I could recoil, fain confusion, pretend to be taking a walk or calling my dog.
But, as I stood there in my Saturday morning sweat pants and t-shirt, with my mother behind me and my daughter still in the womb, I decided to embrace my heritage and my destiny. We trash pickers had been hiding in the shadows long enough.
I raised my head high, shower seat in hand, grinned and announced in my loudest, friendliest voice, “Good morning neighbor. I hope you don’t mind, this is a ’quality item.’”
