I took a dump

I am a fan of many things in life, and those that know me well, know my love of THROWING OLD CRAP AWAY. There is nothing quite so peaceful, so harmonious, so freakin' FREEING as getting rid of those things that clutter the quiet, shaddowy spaces of my old house.

This weekend, I was introduced to the city dump. A friend had rented a truck and was parting with all things junkish, and asked if I had any contributions to make. My reaction? Tears of joy doesn't cut it. Think the cafe/orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally.

Memories of the city dump loomed large in my head. Semi-annually my father--whom I credit for my love of purging-- would fill up an entire tow-trailer with tree trimmings; grass; broken toys; old boxes; dead bodies; garden refuse; and junk, junk and more junk. He would then load up my brother and I and haul the whole sorry mess over to the dump, where we-- my brother and I-- would brave the stench and the seagulls and secretly hope to find our treasure in one man's trash.

Somehow it wasn't bravery for my father; like an expert cowhand, he got the work done and made it look easy. And he really didn't give a rip about the treasure-- one man's or otherwise-- it was all trash to him.

The Santa Rosa City Dump was a gigantic pit, but more like a canyon to my seven-year old eyes. My dad would back the trailer up to the edge, and we would unceremoniously fling crap and watch its 30-foot drop. It was beautiful. Freeing. Cathartic.

My Fresno experience offered less in the way of flinging catharsis. It's actually not even a dump, but rather, a transfer station. Years ago, after his first trip to the Fresno transfer station, my father told me: "Trace, it was the damnedest thing. You drive up to this building, unload everything , badeep, badop, badoop. That's it. Some guys come and clear it away."

At the time I couldn't imagine that the lack of a pit and the glorius sight of falling trash would produce the same sense of freedom. In a way I was right: it's different. But the freedom is there.

And so is my old oven, a few bits of broken cabinet and the many pieces of a loft bed.