Trashman

Wednesday nights are a big deal at my house. It’s a time of celebration. That’s the night I put the garbage cans out so they can be emptied the next day by the man in the truck. It’s not as much fun during the winter – so part of my enthusiasm is to mask my reluctance in going out into the cold.

Garbage has a special meaning for me; I spent 12 months of my life on a garbage truck. I treasure that experience and wouldn’t throw it away. It was hard work – so every Wednesday night I celebrate the experience, the memory and the fact I don’t do that for a living anymore.

Garbage was collected differently in the early 80’s than it is today. The garbage was in metal cans, and we picked them up, not by grabbing them with a mechanical arm extended from a truck, but with our hands. Some days 700 cans were emptied. I don’t seek pity or praise – rather I offer the perspective of walking in another’s shoes.

The first six months of my stint as a garbage man were in St. Cloud. I had graduated from St. Cloud State University and was waiting for Rhonda to do the same; she had started a year later than me. At night I tended bar at The Red Carpet (another column?) and drove the trash truck during the day.

Hermie rode on the back. He was not a big man – maybe 5-foot-6, 140 pounds – but he was tough. No can was too big for him to abuse. If people put out too many cans or they had forgot to put there cans out he would holler obscenities at the house. I would get out and help on an especially heavy stop, but he preferred that I stayed in the truck to keep our day moving.

One of my favorite memories is when two toddlers waved as we drove by their house. When I pulled the air-horn in response they both tipped over. When Rhonda graduated in the spring I moved from St. Cloud. The following year we were married, and I began law school. The next year I was out of school with that dream dashed, so I needed a job.

I felt that my degree should account for something but was having trouble finding someone to agree with me. It’s hard to look for work when you’re working, but I found it harder not to work. So I got a job as a garbage man, except this time I was riding on the back of the truck for $5 an hour.

It took more grit than I possess now to get out of a warm car and climb on the back of a garbage truck in an October rain; cold, wet gloves may be worse than no gloves at all. My index fingers were so calloused after a few weeks of emptying cans, that I could pop the metal lids off two tightly sealed garbage cans with one movement.

Glenn, the driver, weaved in and out of the alleys and streets of South Minneapolis while I threw the cans. Rhonda would pack me a lunch, which I learned to share with Glenn in the truck in between stops (don’t worry I wiped my hands on my pants before I ate).

“What’s for lunch today?” he would ask. After we ate he would toss the candy wrappers out the window. “Job security,” he would say with a grin.

We worked for a guy who would haul away anything. Sometimes we would carry hide-a-beds down from the third floor of a house, other days we would back up the truck to a busted-up concrete driveway, open the back end and shovel the chunks into the truck.

I know that there are people who work harder than this every day, and I respect them for it. It was brutally hard work and not what I went to school for, but it was a job and I was getting paid. Those days as a garbage man are gone, and on Wednesday nights I think of them when I take out the trash.

Fence

There weren’t a lot of summer job opportunities for 12-year old boy in Belle Plaine in 1971. You could deliver newspapers, mow the neighbor’s grass, or bail hay when the farmers called. Few people were willing to give a kid a chance to prove himself –you had to know someone. Apparently, I didn’t know enough people.

But I knew Jim and Jim knew his parents and his parents knew someone who needed their fence painted. The job was too big and boring for just one, so Jim asked if I would help him. It was the perfect summer job for me. It was only a couple blocks from my house, it was outside, little skill was needed, and I got to spend time with a friend.

From one side the outside surface of a board could be painted, along with the inside surface of the other side. Sometimes Jim and I would paint on the same side of the fence, other times on the opposite side.

We talked and we worked. We talked about girls, sports, teachers, and planned adventures. Sometimes we spilled paint, missed a spot, and went too fast or too slow. But by working together we were able to get the job done without a lot of flip-flopping or excessive name calling when things didn’t go right. And we were just kids.

Kids call each other names, adults label each other, and the meaning is the same. The intent is to damage the other person or group. When an unflattering label or name is attached to a person or a group it hurts the target and also reflects poorly on the person applying the label.

If an argument or position is so weak that name-calling must be resorted to, then silence may be a better option. Now that Michelle Bachman has found herself in first place after the Iowa straw poll I’m waiting to see if her opposition will be called chauvinists or misogynists. After all, some state that those who oppose President Obama’s policies are doing so only because he is black. They must be racists; there can be no other explanation. At least that’s why I hear from some of his supporters.

Tea party members are either “terrorists” (Joe Biden) or “hobbits” (John McCain). It’s difficult to defend or explain away such a charge without getting into a childish exchange of “No, I’m not.” Yes, you are.” “No, I’m not.” “Yes, you are.”

Unless there is clear hard evidence to support damaging labels, let’s do away with them. We may be on opposite sides of the fence, but we should be able to accomplish common goals without painting each other with labels.

And just in case you need to know the color, we painted the fence red. The woman who hired Jim and me, a couple of white boys, to paint her fence, was black. She gave us a chance, and I will never forget that.

Signs

Some signs are easier to explain than others. I have seen hand-painted signs stuck in the ground along country roads that read “Eggs”, “Cucumbers” or some that say “Produce.” I hope the last one refers to things grown and raised for sale instead of a command of “get to work.”

I was driving through Wisconsin the other day with my friend Mark when we saw a sign that almost made us turn around and stop in to inquire, “Kittens $20.” No need to worry, this is not the second column in a series about kittens – this one is more about economics.

Clearly we should have stopped in to satisfy our curiosity about these cats. Instead we chose to theorize. Having seen numerous signs over the years for “Free Kittens,” we wondered if these kittens were special, even rare for this part of the country. Maybe it was just the opposite, perhaps the $20 was offered as an incentive to anyone who would take a kitten. Real money could have been made if the litter was large. Whatever their intent, no cash or cats were exchanged.

The signs seen in the downtown areas of small towns don’t require much thinking to determine their intent; “For Lease,” “For Sale.” The downtowns, those main streets that were a town’s commerce center, are dying as businesses either dry up or move away.

This situation is certainly not new, but it seems to be getting worse. When I was a kid growing up in Belle Plaine the town was much smaller than it is today, and yet in the downtown area there were four grocery stores, two hardware stores, two drug stores, a variety store, two gas stations within a few blocks of downtown, a shoe store, a couple clothing stores and several other businesses. Many of them are gone, or have moved out closer to the highway.

I don’t know for sure why this is happening. I suspect that it is due to several reasons such as shifting traffic patterns, competition, and changing market conditions, but I keep going to back to how Dad looked at supporting local businesses many years ago.

Dad had an office in downtown Belle Plaine and he was disciplined in where he shopped. He shopped in Belle Plaine. When I asked why he didn’t go elsewhere he explained it to me this way: He needed to buy his bread at the local bakery, so the baker would have money to buy a watch from the jeweler next door, so the jeweler could get his car fixed from the garage down the block, so the mechanic could buy his groceries to feed his family and the grocer would be able to keep his store open. He felt a responsibility to these merchants and he didn’t want to break the chain.

Well the chain broke and no business or store is immune. Border’s, the large book store chain, will shut its doors soon. At one time they were considered the big bully on the block that was responsible for the demise of the local independent bookstore. Now, unable to compete with Amazon and Barnes & Noble, they will close their books.

Sure it’s convenient to point and click and shop at one stop, but what will happen to the local retail merchant? This isn’t about me and my silly little office. This is about saving local businesses or soon we may be left with only the big box stores and a mouse to shop with. So please shop local when you can, or at least buy a cat to keep the mice in control. There only $20.

Patience

Patience is a virtue. Perhaps, but I think it depends on the situation. I can be very patient or insanely impatient. For instance, when I am considering a purchase of a limited commodity I do not want to see if it is available tomorrow.

But when it comes to staying power I can linger longer than anyone or anything, including a cat. When Olivia, our resident female feline, has a litter of kittens it’s a challenge trying to find them.

She selects a secret and secluded place. If she suspects you are following her to find her kittens she will not return to them; instead she will bide her time until you give up. But I can be stubbornly patient.

Last year after she had been downsized from her pregnant state I sneaked into the barn after I saw her jump through the missing pane of a window. Being too large for the window myself I opened the barn door. When she heard the door she walked back towards me.

She was being rather coy, but I knew her tricks. I ignored her and went about the business of picking a post to lean on while I pondered. She sat down in front of me and gave herself a bath. After about 20 minutes or so she tired of this and crept over to the firewood pile. Looking around to make sure I wasn’t watching (I pretended to have my eyes closed) she jumped into an old metal tub. There, among the barks and twigs I had saved for kindling, were her kittens.

This year it got a little more complicated. We first discovered the litter in a hollow beneath a bale of hay. But because we had found them she moved them. Finding the second location was not difficult. I spotted her heading to the barn one afternoon, but when she did not emerge from the lilies below the window I went looking. There they were, gathered in the greenery. Of course now that the cache of kittens had been discovered she would move them.

This third hiding place was the most challenging. Taking advantage of my busy schedule Olivia enjoyed a couple weeks of solitude with her kittens. But they were approaching a month old and if we had any hope of having tame barn cats, they would have to be found soon.

Saturday, after my morning constitutional with Buddy the dog, I noticed that Olivia was hanging around the front steps. With the whole day ahead of me I thought “I have you now.” I made some coffee to accompany the toast topped with strawberry jam that had been laid out for me. Taking the morning paper I seated myself next to the window.

While reading how Democrats and Republicans were waiting to see who would blink first over the debt crisis in Washington, I saw Olivia head for the barn. I scurried through the house to a back door so I could sneak up on her. By the time I got outside she had disappeared. One year she had hidden them in the hostas, but that was too predictable so I continued to the barn. Once she spotted me she went into her routine. But once again I waited her out.

Soon she made her way to a corner where there was a large set of warehouse shelves. Among other things on the shelves were a bunch of windows leaning against the wall. When I saw her climb behind them I headed back to the house for the flashlight.

When I returned I couldn’t find her. Climbing onto the shelf and through the cobwebs I rifled through the windows but she was nowhere to be found. Then I heard the sound of a content cat purring. Getting down on my knees I spotted her on the barn floor beneath the shelf. With only four inches of headroom it was a good hiding place.

This time we made the first move. My son Nathan helped me dismantle the shelf and we moved Olivia and her kittens to the smoke house where they would have room to grow and play. All things come to those who wait. Sometimes.

Buttons

A couple weeks ago I reached into the pocket of a new sport coat and pulled out the complimentary bag containing 2 buttons (a large one for the front and a small one for the sleeve). I gave the bag of extra buttons to my wife Rhonda. I don’t know where she stashes them, but she knows how to sew and will occasionally patch things up for me. My grandmother (Mom’s mother) kept her extra buttons in a coffee can (the 2-pound size).

Grandma kept this can on the floor in her sewing room. It was hardly a room; even as a small child I recognized that. Dad described such rooms as “so small there’s no room to change your mind.” There was room for a foot-powered sewing machine, Grandma, a visiting grandchild, some bolts of cloth, her mending and her can of buttons.

I don’t know for sure how the can ended up in my possession but it has been largely ignored. That red and white Butter-Nut coffee can has been sitting quietly forgotten on a shelf in our kitchen for several years. It had blended in with the other old-time country kitchen decorations so I never really thought about it.

Saturday, I took it off the shelf to examine a two-word phrase, “Specially Mellowed,” on the can that had caught my son Nathan’s eye. Having forgot about the can’s contents and presuming it empty I was surprised to find that it had some heft to it – Grandma’s buttons. It was like finding an old friend. I spent the next hour happily examining its contents.

Along with a few coins, some hat pins, hook and eyes, small buckles and paper clips were Grandma’s buttons. There must have been several hundred of them. They ranged in size from a Kennedy half-dollar to that of a pencil eraser.

Some of the buttons had a colored fabric cover, many were shaped like flowers, there was even one shaped and textured to resemble a seashell. In addition to the most popular color, kind of a white/off-white/egg shell/lace/beige/ivory/bone/vanilla/pearl mix, there were buttons of pink, purple, red, blue, green, gray, black, silver, gold and so on. They were made out of plastic, metal and wood.

After I had dumped the 50-plus year old contents on the table Nathan joined in the fun. By waiting he was able to avoid getting the blame for messing up a clean table cloth with dust, dirt and debris. With the help of his younger, stronger eyes we found real treasure.

There was an old metal button with the seal of the state of Oklahoma (a long way for a button to travel). The button was so small and faded that it was only visible under a magnifying glass. Several buttons had “U.S. Navy” stamped on them, others just had the anchor. Grandma’s four sons had been in the navy, while Grandpa had served in that branch in both world wars.

There is also a WWI U.S. army collar button. It has two rifles crossing each other with a large F (signifying company) below them. Grandma had one brother, Walter. He died as a young man in France in WWI. Perhaps this button had belonged to him.

Grandma kept these buttons in a can marked “Specially Mellowed.” It’s a clumsy little saying created many years ago by somebody in the Butter-Nut marketing department, but I like the meaning. Specially – Made for a special purpose. Mellowed - Pleasantly smooth; softened by maturity or experience, relaxed and good humored.

At 52, I’m mathematically closer to 70 than 30, but I don’t feel old – foolish, but not old – and I’m still looking for my special purpose. Like a button we are all designed for a special purpose, and as we age our rough edges should be smoothed out. The button that is knotted up too tight is usually the one that pops under stress. So stay relaxed, good- humored and hang onto your buttons.

Fair Weather

Today the thermometer will top 95 degrees in the shade with the air so thick it’s hard to see clearly, but that what’s we wait for up here in the north. It’s the reason people stick around (or return) after five months of winter. I like to tell people (without any prompting) that I prefer January weather to July.

In the winter people up here stay inside and mind their own business. In the summer they are expected to go fairs and festivals. There aren’t too many of those in January.

I like good food, but I prefer fair food, and I know I’m not alone. Last week I worked at the beef stand at Bar-B-Q Days in Belle Plaine. There were men beneath the bleachers cutting up the meat. I stay out of their as I don’t want to lose a finger. Nor am I suited for making the sandwiches and wrapping them up “just so.” I really have no business being in anything resembling a kitchen – but there I was.

I had the easy job. In exchange for a ticket or two I handed over hot barbeque beef sandwiches, cold pop and water. In only a few hours hundreds were served.

There were the hungry paramedics on hand to save lives, the Shriners fresh off the parade needing refreshment (“drink up Shriners”), visiting royalty in all of their glamour (I didn’t see William and Kate), mothers and their children with sweaty red faces, brutish men with their shirt sleeves hacked off, politely asking for “just one”, women picking up supper for their working man, (“He’ll be tired and hot when he gets home from work”), carnival workers in a hurry to get back to the rides, kids I went to school with who now have grand kids.

Most of the tasks at these events are done by volunteers. I am a rather poor example as I have got into this role rather late, and I am not yet fully immersed in the position but I can recommend it.

There are opportunities almost every weekend to give back to your community (or county). The Scott County Fair runs July 27-31. This will be my second year of driving a “people mover,” which is not a very fancy name for a golf cart. It’s really fun – you get to drive around and pick up people and take them here or there. The conversations last only for a few minutes. It’s like speed-dating (not that I would know), except you’re in a golf cart and no phone numbers are exchanged. Here is the website for more information: www.scottcountyfair.com/

After the county fair there is Derby Days in Shakopee, August 3-7.
(www.shakopeederbydays.com/getInvolved/volunteer.php). There are plenty of volunteer opportunities available for this event. Last year I got to be a bingo caller. It’s a lot harder than it sounds. There is a lot of pressure in calling out numbers. The pacing has to be just right – too fast and some of the players can’t keep up, too slow and people get impatient. And of course you have to keep your numbers and letters grouped properly. I heard about a guy in some town out west who mistakenly called “G -7,” instead of the correct “B-7.” He was never heard from again.

In Jordan they have Heimatfest on September 10th. Although I have no experience in volunteering at this event I plan on offering my services. I can take tickets, call out numbers for bingo or drive a golf cart. (www.jordanchamber.org/heimatfest/)

Next year on the third weekend in July I will be back in the stand at Bar-B-Q days in Belle Plaine. I generally don’t plan that far ahead – but for those of you who do, here is the website for more information.
www.belleplainemn.com/chamber/Bar-B-QDays.php

I don’t have any plans to attend the St. Paul Winter Carnival next January. I will be inside reading a book if you need me for anything.

Read.

For my friends, family members and the 36 faithful readers of this column it will come as no surprise when I tell you that occasionally I will have an opinion on a matter. Even though I want to believe that my opinions are offered only after reasoned and thoughtful consideration, I know that is not always the case. When a person is wrong enough times he begins to accept it (which is not the same as expecting it). The person who thinks he is never wrong will never accept being wrong. That person can never know what they don’t know.

The things I don’t know could fill volumes – so I read. I was reading the July 2nd edition of World Magazine when I flipped the page to Janie B. Cheaney’s column, Becoming Readers. Since this was on page 24 of a magazine comprised largely of words it seemed that the author was after more than just inspiring people to read. She wrote:

“I remember the moment when I became a reader. I always liked to read, but that's not the same thing. What made a reader of me was a novel I received through a children's book club.” (The Silver Sword by Ian Serraillier) “…the story itself had reached out and grabbed my hand.

“Words arranged in sentences, built into a narrative, made me bigger. It's a bit like creation itself: light spoken into being, coalescing into atoms, combining into molecules, becoming elements. Writing imitates creation by ‘speaking’ ideas into being."

According to Cheaney, readers share in the creative experience. “…they interact with the book in a conversation that alters perception, expands sympathy, provokes anger, or refines argument.

“Not everybody is a reader, in this sense. C.S. Lewis, in An Experiment in Criticism, made the claim that even in a highly literate society, readers (those who get something from books that they get nowhere else) are the minority. Most people read for two reasons: entertainment and information. Both needs are legitimate, but can be met in other ways, especially today. The third reason I would call enlightenment—letting the ideas created by written language challenge or change us.”

I learned how to read from my mother; but Jon Logelin taught me how to read to learn. Mr. Logelin was one of my high school English teachers. He was passionate about reading, especially books written by Kurt Vonnegut.

In spite of my being an unwilling and unruly student, Mr. Logelin taught me to listen for the author’s voice as I read. By doing this I learned to appreciate another’s perspective.

Although Mr. Logelin and Ms. Cheaney communicated the importance of becoming a reader of books, I would suggest that news and political commentary be read as well. We all have a responsibility to learn as much as we can about current events and our political climate.

Read and listen to other points of view besides your own. You might learn that you may be wrong, or hopefully you will understand another’s perspective better. There is no honor in reading or listening to only that which you agree with. If your only source of news and information is one-sided you are only seeing half of the coin.

If you read Ann Coulter, read Maureen Dowd as well. Thomas Friedman and Charles Krauthammer will give you opposing views, as will Paul Krugman and George Will.

My daughter, Jennifer is a Kindergarten teacher. She spends much of her school day reading to her students and teaching them to read. She gave me a shirt with one word on the front: Read.

I think that is a marvelous suggestion. Of course, that’s just my opinion.