Dump Run

Tubs recently spent the weekend taming the abundant foliage that forms our front fence.  He mercifully arranged to borrow my father’s trailer to take the clippings to the dump rather than let them accumulate, having learnt his lesson the hard way.  The last mound of clippings took on a life of its own and cost a small fortune to have taken away.  The lawn upon which the mound festered for many months will likely never recover, and the sprinkler system which lay tangled below was not spared during the removal.

For two weeks in a row, Tubs has collected the trailer from my father – the very same one my dad has had for well over twenty years, and took load upon load of green clippings to the local dump.  I suggested to Charlotte and Lulu that they accompany their father on one such run, thinking it was a wonderful opportunity for adventure.  Charlotte was curious and at least considered it, while Lulu said 'Why would we…..it’s just a dump!'. 

I was disappointed and taken aback by Lulu’s comment because going to the dump with my father, when I was a child, was one of my favourite things to do.  Perhaps this says more about the uninteresting manner in which we spent our weekends than it does about the experience itself, but either way - I loved it. 

While my dad deposited the load and debated with the attendant about what proportion of a trailer load it represented (seeking to minimize the dumping fees), I fossicked about in the area of the dump assigned to unwanted items that were given an opportunity to be re-homed.  On one occasion I came upon an old metal netball ring and I could scarcely believe my luck when my dad agreed to take it home.

The pole on which the ring stood was several feet taller than regulation height, and we erected it in the hole designed to hold the tennis net pole on our grass court.  Despite being slotted into the hole, it was still far too tall and leaned at a precarious angle, swaying from side to side at the slightest touch.  I dared not complain as it had been bought (for $20) at my request and I was determined to justify its acquisition.  I spent many hours shooting goals – most of which missed as the ring would simply swing away. 

In travelling to the dump with dad I sometimes felt I had unnecessarily placed myself at risk by virtue of my father’s 'lead foot'.  My dad was always in a rush, whether on foot during his Saturday morning ward round at the hospital (which I frequently accompanied him on), or a drive to the dump. My dad walked as fast as one possibly could without breaking into a run and drove at excessive speed.  (Come to think it, the many years of following him around may explain my talent as a race walker at school!)  I vividly remember being in the passenger seat while careering along, trailer in tow, thinking my dad must have been oblivious to the fact that I was in the car.  I hoped as much - I hated to think he would drive this way and knowingly endanger my life!

I don’t know whether dad liked that I came along, or whether he found it a nuisance.  There was no conversation between us and accompanying him was always at my instigation and not his.  When suggesting that my children now accompany Tubs on expeditions such as these, I do so knowing that he will seize the opportunity to talk with them, or at the very least, sing and dance badly to music at an outrageous volume along the way.   As he departed the dump with Charlotte and Lulu, Charlotte asked Tubs if he would like to work at the dump.  He replied that he wouldn’t really and asked her the same question. Charlotte said 'Yes….no…..maybe', she usually likes to keep her options open.  Unsurprisingly, Lulu, who was dressed in white and pale pink from head to toe, answered unequivocally, ‘NO’.   For my part, I’m just glad they went and very relieved that they didn’t bring anything home!