The men who collect our trash each week are heroes. Unlike the mailman who sometimes just doesn’t show up when it’s raining, they’re here once a week, no matter what
Lately, I’ve been a difficult client. I’ve put out at least one extra barrel containing lots of the things that have been hidden under the eaves in the attic or in a corner of the basement for years. Some I tried (unsuccessfully) to find another home for and just didn’t want to move.
I was particularly embarrassed this week. In addition to the barrels, I put out large framed posters that I couldn’t give away, an old lampshade, a couple of pathetic brooms, and more.
When I heard the familiar sound of their truck approaching, I held my breath, awaiting the arrival of the trash police. But troopers that they are, the trash collectors carted away all those memories.