When we lived at our house, rather than having garbage collection, we bought a dump sticker and hauled it all ourselves to the town transfer station, sometimes a social event of its own.
When we moved to this complex, we were happy to learn that we could put out all kinds of things, and off they would go. But now, what with a breakdown in all kinds of services, things can be a bit mercurial. Sometimes they come early, sometimes late, sometimes not until the next day. Since we’re not supposed to leave trash on the curb overnight (animals), this means dragging it all in and out again.
And two weeks ago, My Guy didn’t hop to it fast enough and we watched the big truck sail by while our trash moldered in the garage. Thus my 7:00 a.m. rush to the front door with my phone when I heard a big motor and air brakes outside. Always on the lookout for something – anything – to blog about, I figured his outmaneuvering the trash men might be fodder.
Sadly, not the trash pick-up. Instead, it was my neighbor Barbara off to the hospital yet again.
Last year, she was a feisty 91 year-old who was out walking regularly with her (2nd) husband, picking up the mail, sitting in the front yard with their little dog Lily in a lap. This year has not been kind. She contracted an infection of some sort this winter and her health has been up and down since.
I miss our chats as our two little dogs would sniff, then peacefully ignore each other.