The refused refuse
The people who take care of the refuse run in our sector have special rules. Or reasoning. Sometimes they like what I offer up; other times not so much. Some days, they refuse my refuse, and never leave a reason (or excuse).
This morning, the truck took my small bin of recycled goods. Completely. The large round plastic tub (with the fake rope handles that cause so much stress at times) wasn’t there when I went out to check. Gone, in sixty seconds. Into the truck. Technically, I could have recycled it; plastic works. I just never put two and two together. My view of what constituted fair game wasn’t as all encompassing. I did note that he rejected the blue (broken up, duct taped, scarred from years of service to the cause) bin beside it, although the contents were satisfactory. Who knows? Maybe the better quality refuse can’t be refused.
It’s almost too late in the game for me to replace the tub with another. Either it, too, would disappear, or I’d have one more thing to pack up. In passing, we now have two days of accumulated cardboard cartons on hand; little excuse remains for anything to be in plain view around here. From my point of view, the more I pack, the sooner I’m off to greener pastures, or fields. Maybe even in time to get in a bit of fishing, before the trout go into summer hibernation.
Oh, and the pile of branches that I put out for the branches pickup were refused, too. Left neatly piled, but present. And now I have to figure out an alternative use for them.
