We still use small green recycle bins in my neighborhood. We have yet to graduate to the hulking two wheel jobs like the rest of the townsfolk. So we lug our smallish receptacles by hand to the curb.
I really could use one of the bigger models. Most weeks the smaller versions can’t possibly hold everything I collect on my walks.
Most neighbors make a good faith effort to recycle but much of what they deposit in the green plastic bins is fairly large and uniform; cardboard boxes, empty bottles of laundry detergent and sacks of water and soda bottles.
Then there’s my hodge-podge jumble of junk. In any given week it’s a motley collection of hundreds of different pieces of trash in the same plastic bags that took my walk with me. Many of the finds are minuscule, almost no two things are alike, many are smashed while still more is just plain ragtag. Sometimes from the kitchen table I can hear the beep-beep-beep of the recycle truck as it backs into view in my deadend street.
I wonder, too, what the scrawny guy who hoists, then dumps, the junk into the stinky hold of the truck thinks of my heap ‘o trash. He’s gotta wonder “What the hell?” I feel for the guy.
But he has his job and I have mine. He just happens to get paid. Me, my wages aren’t measured in dollars but sense; the sense that my ‘hood is a little cleaner.
These bags won’t all fit into my green recycle bin.