small town life

Today is a very important day for my little town. It's hazardous waste day. If you live in the city, you probably just throw things out. But here, there's been a lot of education about not dumping hazardous items into the trash stream or down the sewers.

So once or twice a year, we put all the stuff we've been saving up -- certain types of batteries, paint thinners, old cans of sludgy gasoline, rubber cement, moth balls, rug cleaners -- into our cars, or pickup trucks if we have 'em -- and drive off to the town yard.

The yard is a particularly male domain, and I always feel a little funny (but also a little tough and proud) interrupting all the male bonding that's going on there. It's where town employees come to pump gas into their town-owned vehicles, where they chip and shred brush (do you think they fight over who gets to man the machines?), and where, once a month, there's an extended recycling moment. People cart down twisted shards of metal, old air conditioners, and appliances, and I bring my own tiny offerings from time to time.

But HWD is another thing entirely. Last year, I was caught in a traffic jam over a quarter mile long waiting to present my offerings. We crept along and I even got to quiz an aspiring state rep about his stance on gay marriage (agin it. Sorry, don't mean to be rude, but you'd do best to talk to the people in the car behind me.) After an hour of idling, we got to the head of the line. They had just closed things down because they'd run out of money, and I had to beg to be able to leave my few items.

This year, they've banned latex paint (just leave it to dry out and throw it away). I arrived moments after the opening time, presented my ID showing that I am a resident, and waited in a line only ten cars deep. Employees of Clean Harbors were wearing white jump suits and industrial glasses, and efficiently handling two or three cars at a time. They happily took my two gallons of paint thinner and I was done after waiting only five minutes.