Ode to the Transfer Station

By Krista Richards Mann

Having given up on my garbage collection service for both financial reasons and the early hour at which the cans were clattered and garbage compacted, I have begun making frequent trips to the transfer station.

I know now why it is called the transfer station.  I seem to transfer as much to my vehicle and back to my garage as I leave there.  While, the town for reasons of liability does not condone “scavenging”, how can one let three adorable retro-chic bicycles go to landfill?  The timing was perfect!  My daughter had just outgrown her bicycle and nearly everything else she possessed.  The difficulty would be in convincing her to accept a rusted and dented old bike. 

While still in my car, I took the bike to Westport Hardware begging a bit of advice.  Restoration would require a can of paint, another of WD40 and some sandpaper.  Before she arrived home from school the bike was painted green (representing the intention of conservation) and leaned against the garage.  I turned its front wheel in a beguiling manner and hoped for the best.

It worked!  With a promise of letting her further decorate it with peace signs and flowers, and attach a basket with zip-ties, she was beaming with contentment.  (It should be mentioned that the bike could also use some new brakes in the near future, but for now we’ll stop sparingly.)

My son has asked that I help him restore one of the other cycles now cluttering our garage, but they are a bit tall for him, and I am still scraping rust from my cuticles.

I’ve been to the Greenwich town dump.  (I know... I go to the nicest places!) 

In Greenwich, there is a shed filled with books.  When you dispose of garbage, you can donate or take books from the shelves.  Currently, I give my books to friends or to the library.  But something about the Greenwich system is pragmatic.  I didn’t want to pass by reading Friedman’s, Hot, Flat and Crowded,” for example, nor was I patient enough to wait for it at the library.  (I heartily recommend it.)  So, I purchased a copy, skimmed it, promised to set an example of virtuous consuming and global consciousness and piled it with a few other books on my night table.  But, if I had been able to leave it there for you, wouldn’t you have been happy to acquire it?

I promise, I am not a regular visitor of dumps, but my experience continues.  I have a friend who is generous with her vacation house in Monterey, MA.  Monterey is a small and welcoming town.  The manager of the dump there was injured in a car accident and locals took turns at his job until he was able to return to work.   We should all be so kind.  In addition to recycling and disposal of waste, there is a shed at the dump.  In this shed, people leave their decent and usable items.  They organize them as if merchandising a little shop.   I’ve picked up children’s ice skates and an old-fashioned hand drill as well as a funky 1970’s drying rack for dishes.  I’ve left books and toys as well as two tiny sleds and a tricycle.  Nothing lasts long in the little boutique.  Sometimes there are post-it notes stating, “works well” or “needs new batteries”.  

I suggest we become considerate of our garbage.  In addition to separating out recyclables and purchasing items with as little packaging as possible.  (I know you are already doing that!) Let’s think about what might be done with clutter that is useless to us, but might be treasured by another.   And perhaps we can learn something from my daughter: to once in a while, accept a bicycle with a history of adventure.