Back
in the 1990s I wrote columns
for in our local food co-op's
newsletter, The First Alternative Thymes, and the
Corvallis Gazette-Times, on waste reduction and
recycling. It was an appropriate topic for the
co-op because it was the original site for
recycling in Corvallis.
To better
understand waste and recycling on our community, I asked our then
waste services company, Corvallis Disposal, if I could accompany the
crew on a trash pick-up day. They said yes. Later, I followed the
curbside recycling crew for a day. Both were eye-opening (and
exhausting!) experiences.
This is an edited
version what I wrote after the trash-hauling day in the January, 1991
issue of the FA Thymes. Keep in mind, this was when the fellows
physically moved every trash can to tip it into the compactor. Today,
they rarely have to leave the truck cabs since their trucks'“arms”
reach out to pick up uniform curbside containers and dump them into
the truck. One person usually does a route solo nowadays.
A
Day in the Life of a Trash-hauler
To some, they're invisible, even when just a few feet away. To
others, they're a bother, a nuisance. Some resent their presence,
others pity them.
Who are they? Our garbage collectors.
Of course, not everyone holds a negative view of garbage collectors.
A few customers come out to visit, sometimes offering a snack, or a
cold drink in the summertime. Others help by making their trash
easily accessible and keeping their containers clean and in good
condition.
Garbage
collectors are justifiably proud of the job they do. It's a
physically demanding job that not everyone can handle. Like those in
other outdoor trades these men (and currently they
are all men) enjoy the physical challenge, the exercise and, most of
all, working outdoors, except in extreme weather, of course. Some are
involved in sports or other physically-demanding
activities after work, so their jobs are ideal
for staying in shape. There's
little insomnia in this crowd.
Those who hold a negative view of garbage haulers would be
enlightened by spending a day with them, as I did recently.
It
was a mercifully dry day in early December that Charlie, Joe and
Gregg
let me tag along to watch, ask questions, and help
tip a few cans. Even though
I did but a minute fraction of what they did, I was
exhausted at the end of the day.
Just climbing quickly in and out of that high truck cab
dozens of times is great
exercise.
Beating
Rush Hour
The
day began well before sunrise in the lunchroom of Corvallis Disposal
Company (CDC), where everyone clocks in and route bosses get their
route sheets: names and addresses of all stops, new or
discontinued service, etc. A different route each day makes variety
another “plus” on this job.
Our
route that day had over 1,000 stops
– one of the busier ones,
they said. It was a “Cushman route,” meaning two Cushman
three-wheelers work with the large compactor truck, which has a
20-yard capacity (compacted) and weighs 46,000 pounds when full. Joe
and Gregg, each with four years at CDC, buzzed their Cushmans through
the neighborhoods like worker bees (the drone of the engines most
fitting), zipping into driveways, emptying cans into the backs of
their vehicles, then backing up to the compactor (their “hive”)
to empty all they've collected. During the two or three minutes it
takes to unload, they report—shouting
over the din of the equipment—to
the route boss, Charlie, who notes extra cans or “lock-ups” on
the route sheet, and calls them in so the office personnel can
respond to complaints or questions from customers. While the two
Cushmans whiz ahead, Charlie moves the truck from stop to stop,
collecting garbage from the houses nearby in a wheeled 90-gallon
container that hooks
to the back of the truck and is
lifted automatically for
emptying. He admits he's not in quite the top shape he was in before
that nifty piece of equipment came along.
People are leaving for work now; parents back out of driveways with
carloads of neighborhood school kids. Joe, Gregg and Charlie keep out
of their way, waving to those who greet them.
Since
trash day is also curbside recycling day, bright red boxes dot the
curbs, as well. While some trash cans are curbside too, others are
hidden behind fences or hedges. The haulers know exactly where to
look. They also know where the dogs are waiting to warn them away.
It's a weekly game, with the dog sometimes getting loose and winning.
Charlie tells of pulling dogs off a child on one route, and being
bitten several times. He thinks the high pitch of the Cushmans is
especially annoying to animals.
Stories of other hazards
crop up during the day, like the paint
thinner that splashed in his face, forcing him to spend three hours
in the emergency room. Charlie's been with CDC for 13 years and was a
logger in Alaska before coming here. He can't imagine not working
outdoors.
Some trash cans are easy to handle. Others are heavy, smelly and
“grungy” with tenacious blobs clinging to their insides like
grey, overcooked oatmeal. A few are close to their own trip to the
landfill. Some metal ones sport sharp edges that jut menacingly, set
to rip clothing and skin. Quite a bit of trash is neatly collected
into plastic bags which, I confess to abhorring until that day. It
was after scrambling for the umpteen-thousandth foam packing peanut
that my resolve began to dissolve, but it was the third time that
moist kitty-litter blew into my face that I frankly reviewed my
position on trash bags.
Full
Bellies
By
10 am. the truck
is packed (literally, with hydraulic blades), so Joe and Gregg head
for lunch, while
Charlie and I head for the landfill. But first, he stops to redeem a
coupon for a free drink at a
convenience stores, compliments of the manager, who lives on today's
route. We dig into our brown-bag
lunches. At Coffin Butte landfill, we breeze past the gate with a
wave and the truck strains uphill towards the top of Cell I. Charlie
backs to the very edge of the steep precipice, jumps out of the cab,
makes adjustments and moves some levers. The back of the truck yawns
noisily open to disgorge the result of a morning's worth of
collecting:
a stew of broken furniture, cake boxes, books, plastic toys, bottles,
clothing, a dead duck, egg cartons, shoes, and yard trimmings. A few
items stick to the top of the truck, among them a pair of navy tights
that billow in the smelly breeze like a trapeze artist
who has lost her footing and clings to the wire with one toe. Another
lever is moved, shaking the trapeze artist and remaining debris into
the pit below where they'll soon be compacted by even bigger, noisier
machinery. We tip-toe
through the dust-covered mud and climb back into the truck to head
back to town, scattering the fat birds picking through the treasures.
The rolling, emerald-green fields and wooded hills in front of us are
in sharp contrast to the enormous
pit of garbage behind us.
The “afternoon” (it's only 10:45 a.m., but everyone's had lunch
and is back on the job) brings new neighborhoods, more garbage.
Traffic is a lot heavier now, slowing the men as they wait for people
to pass. Gregg opens a can and pauses, motioning me to come look.
It's full of paperback books, all in excellent condition. Why...? He
shakes his head and says it was the same last week. A while later Joe
tells me there aren't as many “goodies,” which he defines as
still perfectly good, usable items, as there used to be. “Must be a
sign of the times,” he reasons. Still, I've been struck by the
number of items that could easily be recycled, especially since
everyone on this route has free curbside recycling pick-up. “A lot
of people just can't be bothered,” Charlie says. I'm reminded of a
friend who told me about her neighbor who refused to recycle because
she thinks the box makes her yard look “messy.” She's just the
person to spend a day like this.
I asked what the busiest time of year is, and was surprised the
answer isn't December, because of the holidays. “Summer,” they
all say. “Everyone's cleaning houses, yards, and garages; people
move.”
Not
Done Yet
It's about 2 p.m. when the last can and Cushman are tipped into the
compactor. Charlie calls the office to see if anyone has called to
report missed pick-ups. There are two, one from the previous day
clear out on Kiger Island. Joe and Gregg are dispatched while Charlie
and I head to Coffin Butte, then back to the office. The day's not
over yet, though. Vehicles must be cleaned out, filled with gas, and
reports must be filed as to conditions, mileage, etc. Charlie faces
another hour or so of paperwork.
As I leave, I wonder why those who sell us many of the things that
end up in our trash—and those who convince us we need them—are so
highly rewarded for it, financially and socially, while those who
remove the waste are scorned. Something's askew.
Perhaps one small justice is that our garbage haulers are in far
better physical conditions than most of us are. And they can “read” a
lot about us, the economy and society in general just by what we
throw away.
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