This Place is a Dump

But it's called a landfill because the great huge (about 600 thousand) tons of garbage that go into it daily fill giant multi-acre pits, level the valleys and build small mountains. And on top there are inocuous-looking pipes, somtimes topped with tiny turbines that vent the methane gas from the rotting trash below.
Our guide pointed out the area that marks the approximate spot that is at least partially filled with the diapers from the children born ten years ago; a few of the fifth graders gasped immediately, and those who didn't, stared open-mouthed and wide-eyed when they heard that it takes hundreds of years (some say 500 or more) for those diapers to decompose. I now have new respect for my friends who chose cloth diapers over disposable, and I'm sorry I didn't.
We drove by a big pile of discarded metal things and saw in there several children's bicycles. I remembered the bike that I learned to ride without training wheels: it was one that my father had rescued from the county dump and refurbished for me. He painted it gold, put new tires and chain on it, bought a 'banana seat' and hand grips to match in red glittery vinyl that sparkled like those red shoes in The Wizard of Oz. I loved that bike as much as my brother loved the classic chopper bike my father found and restored for him. His was green with great chrome forks,a black seat. It was painted green with a very cool black smoke effect on it. It isn't that we were so poor that my parents couldn't or wouldn't have bought us new bikes. Rescuing mechanical things and restoring them to a state of usefulness has always been a hobby for my father. I think he likes the feeling of accomplishment he gets from improving something, and I know it makes him happy if his efforts make someone else glad, too. He still saves a bike from time to time, though there are few children around who care for a bike, especially a used one, and he gives them to the local animal shelter which auctions them off to buy food and supplies for the animals there.
After seeing all of those green grass covered hills, with trash lurking beneath them, producing methane, which will eventually be used to fuel a local industrial plant, and percolating some awful liquifaction that we can only hope won't taint the groundwater, all I could think was what a shamefully wasteful culture we have here. I started using those t-shirt bags I made for shopping, so with very few exceptions, I haven't brought anymore of those plastic store bags home since April. We recycle everything that we can and try to reuse at least a time or two the containers that don't recycle before we commit them to the trash. I think now I'll start avoiding as much plastic packaging as I can, which may mean learning to make yogurt since those yogurt cups don't recycle, and can't be used for anything else. I hear it isn't hard to do. One thing is for sure, I have got to do more.

Something to do on a Saturday

My new and only reason to like Diet Coke. There's just something about men in lab coats and goggles in synchronisation that makes me smile. Or maybe it's all the wasted soda.

The Bringing of Food

In the American South, it has long been the custom to bring food to someone whenever there is a family emergency or event that disturbs the most basic household routines. The illness or death of a family member, and even the happy occasion of a new baby is very likely to elicit the bringing of food to the home. This is not an activity reserved for family members or close friends, but one which is often embraced by thoughtful co-workers or neighbors, some of whom barely know your name. It's just another of those things that we do here.

When I was pregnant with Bram, even one of my former students, a dear Japanese woman, brought me sushi when I couldn't eat a thing. Miraculously, I ate the entire dish in one sitting and felt stronger and better. When my son was born, my neighbor baked muffins from scratch for us. And when my father-in-law was in the hospital, friends, family, neighbors, and people who barely knew my in-laws delivered food on a daily basis. Even after the funeral, the food continued to come, because, well, grieving families need comforting.

The food is always someone's idea of comfort food; for Southerners this is fried chicken, potatoes, macaroni and cheese, chicken and dumplings, ham and something with gravy, some kind of casserole or fruit cobbler, cake, pies, trays of fresh fruit or veggies or even sweet tea and coffee. Now that our society has changed and so few of us live with or even near extended family, it isn't unusual for people to bring paper plates and disposable utensils, so there is less worry about cleaning up.

While my father was in the hospital this past week, my friend Gloria, a generous and thoughtful soul, brought us food: chicken, peas and cornbread, corn on the cob, and black eye pea salad. Even when things are going well, Gloria's cooking is a special treat, and because we were all a bit stressed, her offer of food was a delight. Bringing food is one of those gestures that we Southerners understand, like saying the name of an ailing stranger in church, or having prayers said for us, that gives us comfort and makes us all feel better. It's doing something for a fellow human being with no expectation of an immediate return. And THAT is another thing I love about the South.