My own personal landfill.
Wednesday, June 30th, 2010
There is a hole on the edge of my parents’ property, which for some reason some of our relatives feel entitled to throw their trash into instead of hauling it to the proper disposal areas, IE, a recycling center or thrift store.
The other day I passed by this hole when I noticed the last thing they’d tried to throw into it – and I do mean “tried,” because it wasn’t in there very well. They had cut down a pine tree and a juniper and had attempted to use the hole to dispose of it. Not a big deal; that stuff’s compostable. I passed by to get a closer look and see if the wood would be useful for any projects later on (and hey, pinecones!), and discovered something… well, horrifying.
Someone had thrown away a large load of perfectly good stuff – more than I could fit into my car in one haul. And by “perfectly good,” I mean…
-Several unopened rolls of contact paper
-One Calvin & Hobbes collection book
-Several Garfield collection books
-Five fantasy novels, decent condition
-Several childrens’ books, ranging from poor to extremely good condition
-A box full of cheesy Western romances
-An adorable porcelain doll in her box
-Several holiday gift boxes in nice condition
-A plastic grocery bag containing a teenager’s costume jewelry
-Decorative flattened marbles
-One small Caboodles jewelry box
-Several flowerpots
-And other odds and ends.
This stuff was perfectly good. Perfectly usable. And yet, someone couldn’t be bothered to donate it to a thrift store. Never mind this economy. Never mind that plastics leech toxins and carcinogens into the soil as they degrade. Never mind that a thrift store would have been a closer drive than the hole.