A longtime resident of Uxbridge, Ted Barris has written professionally for 40 years - for radio, television, magazines and newspapers. The "Barris Beat" column began in the 1950s when his father Alex wrote for the Globe and Mail. Ted continues the tradition of offering a positive view of his community. He has written 16 non-fiction books of Canadian history and teaches journalism at Centennial College in Toronto.
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Garbage Follies
If I asked the average citizen in this town what his/her greatest fear was, I'm sure I'd get answers such as: Spiders. Sharks. Crossing through cemeteries at night. Freezing to death in winter. Some might even say losing their credit card or (these days) facing the first credit card invoice after Christmas. But you know what? I've discovered an even more deep-seated, pervasive, unrelenting fear around here than all of those other ones. It's that sudden realization, in the dead of night, or worse, in those first waking moments of (on my side of town, Tuesday morning):
“Gees! It's garbage day. I haven't put it out yet! I'm going to miss this week's pick up!”
Well, if missing the weekly stop of the sanitation crew at the foot of your driveway or lane is not the greatest fear, it's certainly up there. I don't know what it is, but ever since the Township shifted to its weekly blue box collection and the rest of the garbage collection biweekly, my Tuesday mornings have been a living hell.
In fact, I think it was the first week of the new schedule (introduced back in the spring of 2009) that I had my first bad experience with the garbage collector, or as I like to call him “the trash Nazi.” It was early that particular Tuesday - just after 7 a.m. I heard the garbage truck coming up the street. I happen to live on the east side of a short, dead-end street, so each trip he first works his way north on my side; then - just a few minutes later - he comes back southbound on the west side of the street. He's got about eight or 10 stops on each side. Translated: My window of opportunity - getting my trash to the curb at the last minute - is very narrow. So, that first morning, I barely got there in time.
“How come so early?” I gasped, after racing (half dressed) down the driveway with my blue box and green wet waste bin in my hands.
“Gotta get it to the curb early now,” he said, “or you miss a week.”
Thus began my weekly battle with the trash Nazi - Monday nights worrying if I'd wake up soon enough to get the garbage to the curb in time, and Tuesday mornings jumping out of bed in a cold sweat to make sure I did. During the summer I even experimented with putting trash out the night before, but that brought out the raccoons to feast on the trash and I'd have to re-collect it in the morning before the truck arrived. I couldn't win.
It all came to a climax earlier this winter. I'd forgotten to make the Monday night pre-collection trek to the curb. My alarm went off before 7 Tuesday morning. But then I heard the truck coming. I threw on my boots, dashed to the garage and grabbed the closest bag. It was the weakest one, the one with wet garbage in it. The trail of frozen, wet garbage spewed down the driveway, just as I realized, “That's not the wet garbage pickup. It's the solid!”
Consequently, I raced back up the driveway to retrieve my solid waste garbage can, but it was too late. He'd gone past the empty spot on my curb. I nearly had to flag him down with a barricade and hand grenades on the southbound trip to get him to stop and take my solid garbage.
And the battle continues. There I was, this past Monday night, suddenly remembering I was just hours away from potentially missing another garbage pickup. I'd figured I would risk having my garbage ransacked by the raccoons and began hauling and piling it at the curb. (I've even come up with strategies to ensure that the heaviest stuff sits on top of the lightest stuff to fend off the nocturnal feeders and gale-force winds.) It was almost midnight and I figured I'd be the only one out there preparing my garbage for the pre-dawn pickup.
Suddenly, I heard stirring up the street. Then down the street. I wasn't alone. My neighbours were all midnight garbage setters. On my last trip to the curb, I met my neighbour across the street hauling all his trash to the curb.
“I work late. I'm not up before 8 o'clock,” he said. “It's either now or never.”
I laughed out loud, realizing just how panic-stricken we've all become at the thought of missing that damned truck. Clearly a fear of missing the weekly garbage pickup is a more widespread phobia than I realized.
