I remember when I was a kid and we had a garbage can -- one of those small ones such as you sometimes see in old movies -- and every week it would be lined with newspaper and then filled with garbage all week long, until it stank of decay and swarmed with flies. Then it would be placed at the curb, along with the box of empty tin cans and unreturnable bottles, but there was no paper waste, because that was all burned in the backyard incinerator. The garbage and cans and bottles would be hauled off by the guys who were still in those days called garbage men. Then, the can would be washed to reduce its malevolent odor, given a new lining of newspaper, and the process of accumulation begun again.
These memories make me realize that I have been surrounded by trash all my life. I wonder how many tons of it I have produced? Much of it must still be rotting away in the landfill in Monterey Park, and will continue to do so long after I am dead. I'm not sure that I like the idea of my trash outlasting me. I guess that's the problem with being from a rich society. As they say, you can't take it with you.
This is certainly an odd rantlet to have gone off onto! I must remember to remember to put the can out in the evening next week, so I won't end up with such thoughts again. This morning, I seem to have no others. I can note that it is still cold, and a bit less foggy than last night, and there have been no deer visiting, and that's about it. It's almost light enough to be about it, now, so off I go. I hope I don't end up dreaming about trash collection today.