Copyright 1999 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com 

Every Wednesday morning for the past nine years, my wife has

interrupted the usual flow of chaos by shrieking, "oh my gosh, it's

trash day!"  The children, all three of whom are in various stages of

school preparation, react to this statement as if she has just spoken

Romanian, stopping and staring at her in numb incomprehension and

"Hurry!"  my wife urges them. 

Being obedient children, they immediately proceed to hurry.  However,

with no specific instructions beyond that, they don't seem to be

hurrying to do anything in particular--certainly, trash collection is

in no way involved.  They bump into each other in the hallway a lot,

shouting at each other to "get out of the way!" 

"Gather up all the garbage!"  my wife and I command.  The kids

respond by forming a committee to debate the fairness of this

directive.  After a brief discussion, they reach the consensus that

everyone should be held responsible for his or her "own" junk.  As

corollary to this absurd principle, they initiate an anthropologic

study into the contents of each receptacle.  For example, since the

parents cook, most of the trash under the sink is "theirs."  My

oldest daughter haughtily declares that she "never" throws anything

away.  My son, checking through the downstairs trash can to gather

evidence that he's not accountable for that one, begins to feel

remorse over some of the things he's discarded, and starts pulling

items out. 

"We're running late!"  my wife warns.  This could be our Official

Family Motto. 

I recently purchased a shredder for my confidential documents, only

to discover I don't have any confidential documents.   However, a

fifteen-year-old girl's entire life is cause for secrecy, and I can

hear her using the device now, grinding up correspondence from her

friends in school.  "We don't have time for that!"  I tell her.  A

few minutes later, my son joins her and begins shredding what sounds

like a potato. 

The school bus chugs by, and I pick up the phone to call the

attendance line.  "For absences, press 1," the recording tells me.

"For late arrivals, press 2.  If you're the Cameron's calling because

it's trash day, press 3." 

"We're pigs," my oldest daughter announces.  I regard her warily.

"We throw away too much stuff." 

"It would be better just to dump it all on the floor in your bedroom

like you do," I agree. 

Despite my expectations, a single garbage can has now found its way

to the curb.  My son places it in the center of the driveway, so that

no one will be able to drive to work.  A gusty wind blows an empty

milk jug out of the container and into the woods.  My boy responds

with the reflexes of a glacier, watching the carton bounce away. 

I open the door.  "Hey!"  I tell him.  "Go get that!" 

He stares at me blankly.  "The milk jug!"  I yell. 

"Oh, okay, Dad!" he responds cheerfully.  Having seen his bus pass by

has put him in a euphoric mood.  He picks up a second plastic milk

container and, to my amazement, tosses it into the wind, jubilantly

clapping his hands as it flies into the trees. 

"Why did you do that?"  I shriek. 

"Well it seemed like a waste of time to go after just one!"  he

responds logically.  He'll make someone a fine husband someday. 

All week long my children have been denying that the kitchen trash

needs to be emptied, jumping up and down on the contents to compress

them.  As a result, when I drag the plastic container from under the

sink, it weighs as much as a collapsed star.  I wrestle it to the end

of the driveway and the neighborhood dogs trot up to see what the

Cameron's will have on the breakfast buffet this morning. 

My daughter is right; we do throw too much stuff away.  By the time

we're finished, we've dragged so much junk out to the end of my

driveway it resembles the inside of my garage.  The shredder falls

silent and the kids go to school, and what passes for peace at the

Cameron house settles over the morning.  Until next Wednesday.

 
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Copyright W. Bruce Cameron 1998

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