Maria stands out a bit at the dump. There are other artists there, but she has a distinctive style, Bob, who works at the dump told me he likes the way he dresses, “she has style, even for here.” Yes, that is so. She is always an artist.

When we go to the dump, I feel like I’m part of a veteran married couple. They call it the Recycling Transfer Station, of course, but everybody calls it the dump in town.

We have a wordless routine. We both put the cans in the car, she organizes the recycling and the cardboard.

Maria and I haul the garbage cans to one of the bays and dump them there. Each can costs $4.50. I take the cardboard to the cardboard bin and dump it there.
Maria takes the recycling bin we keep in the house. There’s about a dozen different recycling bins, maybe more, for glass, batteries, plastic, it takes me forever to figure them out, so while Maria does that – she knows where all the stuff goes – I go into the office to pay for the garbage cans.

There is a dog biscuit bowl there, dogs are very welcome at the dump and we all put our dollars in to keep the biscuit jar full. Fate or Red – one of them always comes – gets a biscuit every time. They love the dump. Fate sticks her head out of the car window and flirts with everyone who goes by.

At our previous farm, we had a trash company come and haul the garbage away, this feels better, more like we are part of a community, we see people know, we know the people there. Bob was alarmed when he heard I had open heart surgery – he reads the blog. He was sad when I had to declare bankruptcy, and since the surgery, he rushes out to try and carry the cans for me.

I appreciate him, he has a big heart and as he told me, “I’ve been there.”

I tell him I can carry cans, it’s no problem for me, but he is convinced I’m not supposed to do it, so sometimes we wrestle over the cans. I do not care to be treated as if I am weak and infirm, but I am also touched by his compassion and diligence. I have learned how to pull the car up so I can get to the cans before he does. At least most of the time.

Community is precious, and fragile. In the rural world, there are still places where we can go to see one another, peek at each others garbage, bring some useful stuff to give away.