When I was growing up our family had a camp on a recreational lake. It wasn’t the wilderness or anything, the lake was lined with camps and there was a small town just a couple miles up the road. Most of the camps were like ours, not suitable for all-season occupancy. The initial spring visit always involved a fair amount of vermin removal. One year we learned the hard way to check out the back of the oven before using it the first time in the season. It took days for the smell of baked mouse and urine and nesting to leave the place. We didn’t have a shower (that’s what the lake was for) or hot water, but we did have an attached bathroom and potable water (though the start-up of the water usually involved hours of my father on his back under the camp, “working” with the pump- my job was to bring priming water up from the lake). I frequently had the company of mice in my bedroom and occasionally, bats. So, you get the idea, rustic but not Jeremiah Johnson.
My parents were both schoolteachers which meant sometimes in the summer we would be at camp for a week at a time. Theoretically, it could have been longer but there were Little League games and the like back home that required periodic attendance. The area didn’t have quite all the amenities of home, but there was a roller skating arena, a drive-in movie theater and a place that served soft ice cream. There was however, no garbage pickup for the seasonal residents along the lake.
One of the big projects of staying at camp was the visit to the dump. It was most assuredly NOT a landfill, it was a classic dump. A place of exceptional oddness, my brothers and I always looked forward to the trip. Although it was a bit out of town and a drive from the lake, it was usually easy to spot our destination even from lakeside. As was the case with most such facilities in those days, it was usually sporting one or two semi-permanent fires, often of what we called an “underground” nature(The Ventures had record called “Underground Fire”).
The dump was mostly bare dirt, tramped and rolled into a rock-like and thankfully low dust consistency. There were piles of garbage scattered throughout with an occasional appliance or derelict car. At unexpected intervals, there could be rather significant sinkholes, some smoking like bizarre geysers. The scene was ostensibly overseen by a few young fellows invariably in jeans and no shirts, regardless of the weather. They didn’t seem to actually manage the action and I don’t remember Dad ever paying anybody for its use, but of course I was a kid and largely oblivious to such. I do remember seeing the other denizens…
They were numerous, more so than any place I have seen before or after, and big. I guess the pickings were probably pretty good. Over the years, my daughter had pet rats, who I discovered were the gentlest of animals, affectionate and quite clever. But at that dump they were creatures of filth, fear and of course targets of my brothers’ .22 caliber rifle. When my brothers were old enough to drive, and be trusted on independent excursions, I even got in a few stray shots. I believe though, I was probably more of a danger to the above-mentioned overseers than to the resident rodents.
I thought of the dump recently when I made a trip to the local solid waste recovery and recycling center. Our “garbage men” (I think they go by the moniker of solid waste haulers) take most of the waste we generate but there are still a few things that just are not acceptable. They tend, due to my inertia, to accumulate over time. Eventually a fair number of electronic devices, old paint, fluorescent bulbs, car tires and the like start to occupy otherwise useable space. That’s when I make my 21st century drive to the “dump”.
It’s still a fascinating place. Entry still goes mostly without apparent notice. Unless I have tires, for disposal of which there is a fee, the place is self-service. Massive dumpsters and enormous cardboard boxes sit outside or in various ports of Quonset huts and trailers. Light bulbs here, old tape players on the wooden pallet, scrap metal over there. The big main building looks like a warehouse for space shuttles, but I never get further than the open entry. Inside, an intriguing assortment of heavy equipment move mountains of recycling from mound to mound. The shirtless sentinels of yore have evolved into more sophisticated, overalled, skilled and accoutered versions for our current needs.
I suppose there is some nostalgic value in the memory of that smoldering rat heaven, this is one of those times when I realize how very far we have come in some ways. It can be easy to just think everything has gotten worse, but here’s something that’s just gotten better and better over my lifetime. It’s always going to be a battle to maintain our self-control and keep the earth a viable residence. But, as I read just the other day, it’s been decades since the Buffalo River was on fire.