Garbage in the country

Loving the Garbageman.

“I love garbage workers.” I mean, really love them. I haven’t always been in love with them, but living in the country for a few years, my passion for garbage workers grew.

Burning garbage in the country in the fall requires imagination, persistence, and motivation.

Garbage is a problem you have to plan for every day. and. I’ll try to remember the list I followed at the farm

1. eggshells go in a bucket to the chickens

2. coffee grounds go to the garden for the soil

3. tea leaves go to the garden

4. teabags burned

5. burnables

6. food scraps scraped into a bucket for the pigs

7. recyclables sorted into separate containers

8. newspapers

9. white printed paper

10. shiny magazines

11. books are another thing

Let me tell you a story:

One day I had all the garbage sorted. Finally, I get out of the garage into the fresh air. I gather up the bag of burnables and head to the burn barrel.

Rustles of dry leaves on the ground remind me winter is coming. I head to the burn barrel. I fill the barrel with the burnables and see it’s cracked. I must remember to get a new barrel when this garbage is ashes. Oh yes, we use the ashes in the garden. There’s a breeze as the sun setting in the West. The sun is so bright the leaves on the ground look like they are on fire.

I stop admiring the beautiful sunset and realize that’s not a reflection. There is fire coming out of the side of the barrel, burning the leaves next to the burn barrel. I look for the rake and the shovel and hurry to rake fire into a shovel and get it back into the burn barrel.

I am from the city. I have only been living in the country for a year, but I have learned that in the country you’re alone, you have to figure things out. I realize the fire is getting ahead of me. I try to make a break for the fire around the barrel, I’ve seen my husband do this, and it makes a bare area with no fuel for the fire, so it just burns out.

I look past the burn barrel and realize the cap of the truck stored just behind the burn pile is on fire. I grab a rope, throw it around the cap of the truck, run to the peninsula in the pond, wrap around the tree, pull the rope, which in turn pulls the cap. I pull until the cap is entirely in the pond. On my victory lap back to the burn barrel, I dance and sing, “I am woman, hear me roar.”

The fire is getting worse. I follow the path of the flame; it is not looking good. I run and pull the hose it won’t reach from the house to the burn barrel. I see a pile of buckets, buckets appear everywhere on the farm, and for the first time, I am glad. I fill one bucket, and before I run to throw it on the fire, I put the hose in the next bucket. When I get back, the next bucket is ready.

Finally, all is under control, I think. Then I realize the fire has gone under the slate and into the woodpile between the two trees. Panic takes my breath away, and I have to bend over to breathe.

Church bells chime from the Catholic church. It must be six o’clock.

“Father, forgive me for I have sinned.” When did that ever enter the mind of a Protestant minister’s child? Pray this prayer and run with buckets of water until my throat is sore, and my eyes are dry from the smoke. Throw wood away from the fire if I am too tired to carry another bucket.

Run to get the leaves near the woods back into the break to burn themselves out now all is well. Except for the area under the burn barrel not to be trusted, I pour water on this area.

Legs shaking breathing hard I go into the house and drop into the first chair I can find,

My husband rushes into the house and asks, “Is supper ready?”

“No, I’ve had a terrible time; the burn barrel was too full and…”

He walked over to the sink to get a glass of water. The water popped and rattled, and bubbles of air came out. “The well is dry. He looked at me in disbelief, “the well is dry; this is serious.”

He ran out the back door.

I sat because I couldn’t move, and I tried to breathe full breaths of air.

He returned and stared at me. The questions poured out of him.

I lost two months of firewood. How could you let this happen?

You could’ve burned down the woods. Do you realize that?

How did you get the cap off my truck into the pond?

Why didn’t you call 911?

I snapped, “911; you have 911 in the country?” I was shocked. In the country where you have to figure things out alone, they have 911 in the country. I shake my head as I stand up.

I shuffle toward the shower.

I remembered we have no water.