Dump Day, fortunately, came right after Christmas this year. I brought the torn wrapping paper, the Lego boxes, the random cellophane pieces and the empty bottles of wine to the dump. "Did you have a nice holiday?" I asked the lady who works there. "Well, it was fine. But, unlike you (who needs therapy when you have an ongoing conversation with your town dump attendant?), when you don't have kids, Christmas isn't the same. But for you, well, it's probably great." She's right. I told her, I don't even remember what we did before the kids, and I don't.
"Oh, you could work at a soup kitchen-that'll cheer you up!" I imagined saying to her. No, that would be no help. Christmas is mostly for kids. It's true. It's for kids and their parents and grandparents. It really is. Let's be honest, without one of those identities, you're at the soup kitchen.
It's good to get rid of all that trash. All those shameful clods of red wrapping paper: a testimony to what we have: money(some), jobs and most of all, a nice family.
Unlike Christmas and the holiday music on the radio, the laundry comes every week, all year long. Drove past the laundry mat on the way home from the dump. I could see a large man, blue winter hat, like a lumberjack, flannel shirt, folding his laundry. I'm so glad we don't have to go inside there: inside the town laundry mat with its hot soapy smells. But, it's nice to know it's there if we needed it. I'm grateful our machines still work. This reminds me of another blessing: friends. Friends who know how to fix laundry machines (thanks Jim). I imagine it ain't so bad in the laundry mat. It's probably heated. Does it have one of those old candy dispensers? The kind where you pull the handle to get your Milky Way Bar? To this day, I still think of a Milky Way candy bar and I can almost smell the milk chocolate when I smell the lilac, chemical experiment scent of 20th century style laundry soap. All of this is from a memory of childhood: when my mom had to use the town laundry mat. It wasn't all bad: she'd buy me a candy bar. Does a radio play inside the room? Steam and the sound of the machines are probably all that guy can hear.
The Lego boxes? Take them away. They are a reminder of the lavish money spent on our children. And such frivolity: tiny bricks of plastic to mess the time away. The cellophane only reminds us of the food we shared with loved ones. The bottles of wine remind us of the parents we cooked for and kissed. The Godiva booze, little liquor bottles inside ridiculously large socks, no normal person could possibly wear these socks, these remind us of our family too: my wife and I and the pleasure we'll enjoy together in each other's company (that's a bit exxagerated---forgive me). All these wrinkly paper reminders of our wealth. Quickly! Shove it into the compactor. Don't let anyone see our little piece of the pie. Maybe they'll be jealous or maybe they'll laugh. Yes, maybe they'll laugh at our little piece of the pie---get rid of it quickly before they either get jealous or laugh. Back to normal.
https://soundcloud.com/#nateherrick/christmas-time-sam-joe
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