Page 12 - S35.Summer 2019
P. 12

qPerfectlyw Seasoned
Southington Magazine — Summer 2019
Each Spring, I go to the Town Hall to get my permit for the transfer station. I drive an old SUV, and I want to be prepared in case I feel like purging some forgot- ten, useless nonsense in the basement. Okay, so I go to the transfer station once or twice a year. That sticker makes me feel like I’m tough enough to haul my own re- jected possessions all by myself!
Going to the Southington Transfer Station while trying to look cool (and other fun summer projects)
and you could still call it The Dump.)
I put together a decent load — a chain link trellis as long as my car, metal plant stand, useless garden edg- er, wooden crates, a lawn chair, etc. I spied a terra cotta planter in the shape of a graceful swan on the floor of the shed. Had it for 30 years. Used it some years, but it didn’t hold much. Ah, now it was chipped on one side. No drainage holes. It owed me nothing. I threw it
I recently cleaned out
my side of the shed. I gener-
ally clean out my side of the garage or shed when I’m annoyed with my husband—annoyed that he never cleans out his side. He’s got relics piled on top of fos- silized junk. Rusty tools, empty golf ball sleeves, 17 pairs of work gloves (the good suede kind, still with the hang tags on them,) water damaged cassette tapes, plastic spikes broken off of Christmas spot- lights, stray nails, boxes of screws from the South- ington Hardware (given to him by my dad, upon ask- ing for my hand in 1980.)
Really? He has no idea WHAT he has in there. I try hard to resist the temptation to throw out some of his crap. He’ll never notice it’s gone.
So, I plan my trip to the Sights and Sounds of Southington, as my dad used to call it (back when hazardous waste was not yet recognized as a thing,
in the back of the car. Time to let it go.
Since I only go to the transfer station once or
twice a year, I sort of forget the drill. Plus, I am direc- tionally challenged, remember? On the ride down Old Turnpike Road, panic begins to creep in. Oh, God. Which one is the entrance? Is it the same as last time? Is it clearly marked? (Apparently I never notice these things every time I drive this route.) Oh, hell, I’ll just follow the guy in front of me with his blinker on.
I follow the leader down the driveway to the check-in area. I survey the scene off to my left: guys in work clothes, swinging and flinging objects into various hoppers with satisfied conviction. Did their wives send them? Did they come of their own vo- lition? Their laissez-faire body language looks as if

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