Free Stuff At The Dump

You never know what you'll find at the dump. Need a new clock? You'll find it. Need a new set of headphones? You'll find them. Need some new frames for your artwork? You'll find those too. It's all free for the plunder at the dump.

The dump is a wonderful place. There are friendly people there ready to help you sort your paper and plastic. Not sure where that clear plastic container for tossed salad goes? Don't worry, the attendant will be happy to explain it to you. Old records, helpful neighbors; the dump is a wonderful place.

Looking for more Herb Alpert vinyl to add to your collection? You'll find it. Need a new lamp? You'll find it. I needed a new book on economic trends of the nineteen seventies; found it. I needed some school materials; found them. You can find it all at the dump. Today there was a nice Thomas organ placed next to the glass recycling box. All at the dump. Whatever you're looking for, you can find it there.

Nothing beats a dump deal. Sure, you may hunt for bargains at Marshalls or Kohls, but nothing beats a dump deal. Ten percent off? Twenty percent off? How about One hundred percent off? Nothing beats a dump deal.

What's more is the dump offers culture. Our dump has a lovely gallery of local artists. Their earnest attempts at painting are displayed in a sometimes permanent and often times revolving showing. The gallery is located beside the tinfoil and cat litter barrels-you can't miss it. There's something charming about paintings hung on the interior of the dump barn walls. It's like the Louvre meets Oscar the Grouch. It's quite comforting to see the folksy portraits, still lifes and my favorite- Two Lovers Kissing In The Grass; With Lawnmower Grease Stains. Nobody has taken that one yet.

Then there's the library. That's right, the dump has a library. The shelves are lined with fiction, non-fiction, self help and they all smell like stale smoke. But, stale smoke adds character to a Danielle Steele novel.
You never know what you'll find at your local dump. So get out there and recycle! Recycle for the future. Get to know your neighbors. See their trash and learn about art and literature. The dump is a wonderful place.

And now I leave you with these fitting and phony words from Sir Charles Dickens in reference to his own town dump on the occasion of the bicentennial of the town refuse station:

"Oh, dump, thou hast given mu-waw such amusement and much odorness and trash. Whence not thee to question wherefore cometh the recycling bins of tomorrow, but asketh what thou can do for thine dump. And I bidet adieu and or-vwaw and etc. Many hours hath Aye spent at this here heap O' garbage. And that is the bare bodkin."

For the Queen's Recycling Ceremony, 1898

The Old Stone Walls

The old stone walls that mark the property lines of New Hampshire are like one giant flea market antique, but imagine how hard it would be to box them up and bring them for assessment on Antique Roads Show?
Unfortunately, one of our neighbors has caught folks stealing rocks from the old walls that line their property. So, that proves it; they're collectible. Maybe I could get ten dollars for one on eBay, but I'd rather keep them, they bring a little historical character to my yard.

There's an artist, who I really admire, named Andy Goldsworthy who was commissioned to build a stone wall somewhere in New York state. He was paid thousands of dollars to create this meandering neo-stonewall. It was a noble half mile long, maybe more, but salty New England farmers did the same thing without a commission, spanning thousands and thousands of miles.

The stone walls tell us about the laborious, frustration of New England farmers who had to move the glacial leftovers strewn across the fields to make room for planting. These pain in the neck rocks were probably one of the reasons New Hampshire's Horace Greeley stated, "Go west, young man!" Go west to get away from these rocks.

Sheep farming was popular on our hill at one time. I imagine it was easier to raise sheep than grow crops in these rocky meadows. Look at any, old, New Hampshire farm field and you will see an ancient, monster rock still standing somewhere. These lone testimonies to what once was stand untouched by modern earth movers that so easily rewrite the landscape's narrative. Don't get me wrong, bulldozers are cool, heck, I knew a Bulldozer in college, he was a great guy and all. But, these old stones are a picture of what New England farms once looked like. Seeing these heavy loads of granite you can almost imagine the difficulty these farmers had trying to clear the pastures.

Here's an excerpt from "River's and Tides" that documents the work of Andy Goldsworthy who created art made from natural materials. No paint, no tricks, just the natural color of leaves, arranged to create dynamic results, the reds kneaded from the iron rich clay and the balancing of rocks and ice done skillfully with a steady, patient hand and without glue or nails.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkHRZQU6bjI&feature=related

High Roof Drifter

My son and I flushed him out this morning. The beast was cunning. Already he'd taken a half-cup of blueberries from our small harvest of bushes behind the garage. Blueberries for pancakes. Our blueberries. Blueberries filled with anti-oxidants. Blueberries to feed my family. This animal was a threat. He needed to be stopped. Was he feeling lucky today?

He was no easy target, hiding in roof rafters, behind walls, leaving piles of germ infested acorn shells in the basement. Who knows what else. I said, "Quick son! Head 'em off at the garage trail!" "You betchya Dad!"

"Rattle the walls," I said.

With pellet gun in hand, I scanned the roofline. Would the creature fall into our trap? "Rattle-rattle-rattle," the boy banged the side of the garage wall with his plastic rake sending the scurrying animal over the roof to my side where I waited in ambush from my back deck perch. Maybe I should have put on my Mossy Oak camo jumpsuit. Nah. "Here he comes boy! I see him!" I said.

Like Clint Eastwood in Pale Rider, I slowly raised the barrel. Looking down the scope, knowing the calibration meant just a couple millimeters below the crosshairs, I took aim at this vermin. For too long he'd plagued these roofs. Justice was coming to town. A tumbleweed rolled across the lawn. One desperate citizen, derby hatted, dashed across the street to hide in a stable barn. Did I set the scope right? I don't know. It didn't matter now. It was just me, the prey and my pellet gun. This was the moment of truth. "Poooosh!" (The sound of a pellet gun)

"Did you get him, Dad?"