Garbage

Tonight was take-out-the-garbage night. I hate take-out-the-garbage night. Usually because I'm whip-dog tired from the day and it's the last way I want to spend my time. Okay, it's pretty much a selfish thing and a lazy thing. A whining childish don't-want-to-be-responsible thing.

Without fail, however, I think about my father-in-law. I know that's one of his jobs and he faithfully does it. I've never heard him complain about it. I haven't heard him grumble about how tired he is. He just does it. Maybe in his private moments he, too, hates take-out-the-garbage night. But no one would know it.

And in thinking about him doing it, I feel connected to a reality that is bigger than me. It's the reality that this mundane task has a significance far out of proportion to the miniscule energy expended on it once a week. After all, take-out-the-garbage night is a chaos-buster activity. Everyone everywhere that performs this function brings a little order to their corner of the world.

I'm also reminded of my Mom and the example she set for me. I can see her 5' 3" frame at twilight, bundled into an old grayish-brown coat, maybe with Dad's gray winter cap with the flaps pulled over her ears, trudging throught the snow in his army-issue Mickey Mouse boots taking out our trash to the burning barrel. As a little kid, I watched her from the window and wanted like anything to be out there with her.

Now's my chance to make her proud.