The Dump Nazi

It's the time of year when all of the extra clutter in the house and garage gets tossed into the trash heap. Two weddings in one year also gives impetus to cleaning out the kids rooms that are filled with stuff they decided wasn't important enough to take with them. I forced the issue when both Betsy and Josh were over this weekend. Thus, the trip to the dump and the inevitable run-in with the dump Nazi.

Going to the landfill with my dad as a kid was fun and interesting to the mind of a child. It greeted our noses as we drew near with the pungent stench resembling orange peels, coffee grounds, dirt and soiled diapers. The seagulls did circles above the trash mounds, scavenging pieces of spoiled food before the tractors rolled them into their dark, musty grave. We climbed the dusty road leading to the final destination of our trash, backed the trailer and started the brisk unloading process.

We were men, and the dump wasn't a place for girls. Back in the 60s there was never a person looking over our shoulders, quizzing us as to what we were doing or what was the content of our refuse. We could have been dumping bodies for all they knew. Now-a-days the process of unloading undesirables is comparable to the yearly tax preparation process: everything must be separated, grouped and re-examined before presenting. Since the dumping ground in our neck of the woods is really only a dropping point on the way to it's final destination far, far away, the county sets up guards at local convenience centers to make sure the residents aren't disposing toxic waste.

Arriving at the guard hut, the dump Nazi approaches us like John Wayne, leaning to one side, moving toward us in a cocky gait with a hand over his hip as if concealing a pistol. He notices the license tag on the truck is from another county (I borrowed it from Josh's new bride, registered in Cleveland, TN) and looks at me with a squinty-eyed suspicion, like I am an illegal alien trying to escape across the border. He then asks for proof of residence in Williamson County. I comply with a quick-draw of confirmation from my wallet. Apparently that was not good enough. He then asks for the coordinates of my neighborhood as Spring Hill is divided between two counties. My defense seemed to be weakening by the second. Finally I came up with the correct answer and was then flagged through the entrance to unload the burgeoning trash bags into the the giant trash compactor. The Nazi and his deputy kept a cautious eye on us until we kicked up a dust cloud on our way out of the compound. I survived and lived to tell about it here. I would almost rather the junk pile up at home than run the gauntlet again with the dump Nazi.

I believe in maintaining a clean, orderly society. I also believe that we must do all we can to recycle the undesirable leftovers of our lives. But please, assign the dump Nazi to patrol our nation's borders where his efforts are in much greater need.