On Discovering My Destiny

It was Emerson who said, "The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be."

Well if that's true, why have I become the One the garbage man forgot? I didn't decide to be that! I truly, deeply, acutely do not want to be her. Heaven knows I've offered up my share of prayers to be the opposite of that.

But I am.

And so, I've decided the saying should be: "The only person you can become is the person who is destined to wallow in waste," because, really, what does Emerson know about trash anyway? Certainly not what I know.

I grew up in a large family. We single-handedly produced the greater percentage of measurable garbage in the suburbs of Utah county.

Every room in the house had a trash can. One child was assigned to take the trash out every day. We had two garbage cans. We filled them past capacity. The lids could barely close. We hoped the garbage man wouldn't notice.

We frequently called the widow next door to see if we could use the three-fourths of her can that she didn't need, and we filled that up until its lid couldn't close all the way, either. We wondered why the garbage man didn't notice.

There was a definitive rule in our house about never missing garbage day. But we weren't perfect. There were some close calls, for sure.

I have a vivid image in my mind of my 4'11" mother in her pajamas and my dad's snow boots, running down the drive way, heaving the cans behind her, racing the garbage truck with as much desperation and determination as an olympian in the last leg of the 100 meter sprint,  but balancing a towering pile of waste over double her height while she ran.

On those sad, sad, sad weeks when we missed the garbage truck altogether, we had to stealthily slip our extra trash in the neighbors' bins in the dark of night, after they and their watch dogs had fallen asleep. Some people doorbell-ditched baked goods; we shared our wealth of refuse, disposing of it properly and discreetly in the (mostly) nearest receptacles.

But now that I'm grown and raising a family of my own, without a sibling assigned to take my trash out for me, I am crippled in my ability to properly plan for the rubbish removal. And it's been a long lesson for me.

Part of my absentmindedness can be blamed on all those years when we lived in an apartment. It didn't matter when trash day was, because there was always a dumpster or two available to us whenever we needed it. I was in heaven. I could gut the contents of the fridge or a closet whenever I wanted and happily throw them away immediately. What luxury!

We moved into our first house--this house--on a Monday night. The next day, our nice neighbor came over to introduce herself and leave a large plate of delicious, homemade cookies. One of the first questions I asked her was, "When is trash day?"

When she told me Friday, I was elated because Friday has never been able to sneak up on me. I always see it coming; there's always something wonderful to anticipate about Friday. And now I could add Trash Day to the list!

Imagine my confusion when I wheeled our can out to the street first thing that first Friday morning, only to have my nice neighbor sheepishly clarify, "I guess I should have told you: they come at 3 a.m. You'll have to leave it out Thursday night." My heart sank to my stomach like a huge, indigestible brick. This was no way to start my life as a responsible home owner!

I blinked back the tears and acted like it was no big deal, but that image of my half-clad, sprinting mother came back to my memory with jarring force. This could only mean one thing.

I am destined to be the One the garbage man forgot. It's in my genes. I'm marked. I cannot escape the curse. 

I've tried to take this crushing destiny in stride.

One week, when the garbage truck came rolling through the neighborhood at 3 a.m., my subconscious took inventory, reminded me that I had not taken the cans to the street, and awakened me with a startling shake. I threw on my robe, slipped on my husband's big boots, and sobbing desperate tears, I pulled our garbage can to the street. I looked over my shoulder to see the trash man turning the corner; I couldn't be sure if he had already done our side of the street. There was only one thing to do.

 I squinted in the headlights of his truck. I looked up at him with pleading, watery eyes, and whispered, "Please, please take my trash! I can't live with this for another week." When I was sure I had inspired sympathy and action, I sloshed back through the cold sludge on the driveway and stumbled to my bed.

Morning came; I ran down the driveway to retrieve the can, only to find it full. I cried out in despair, "Oh, why don't I live next door to a widow?" I wished mean things upon the garbage man with out any feeling in his cold, dark heart. And for the next week, I rationed the rubbish. If there was any way we could keep the trash, I required it.

Another week, I awakened again, in the early hours before dawn, remembered I had not taken out the trash, and again lugged our can down the driveway, hoping I beat the truck this time. When morning came, I told my husband in a smug voice that he needn't worry, I was pretty sure I had taken the trash out in the knick of time. He informed me that it was Wednesday.

One Thursday morning, when we had twelve family members visiting, I pleaded with one of them to please remind me to take out the trash. He did. The next morning. Friday morning. At 11 a.m.

One blessed Friday morning, I awakened with the familiar sinking feeling in my chest. My joy knew no bounds when I found my empty can on the street with a kind note from our garbage man about how he noticed we forgot and he wanted to help us out. I dropped to my knees in grateful prayer. And to express my gratitude, the following week, I left some baked goods for him.

Slowly, I have come to learn the lesson everyone else instinctively knows. I have to remember the garbage, or rot in it. Those are my only viable options.

I've had many, many weeks of alternating remembering and rotting. Have you ever rotted in waste? It's a terrible lot in life.

But this story has a happy ending.

Two wintery nights ago, Thursday night to be exact, as I was slipping off to sleep in the warm comfort of my bed. I thought of my garbage man, who would have to drive his truck through the icy, cold streets of town in just a few short hours. My compassion and love for this man grew, and I whispered a prayer for his safety and a blessing for his service. I meant every word. And I guess heaven accepted my change of heart and decided to lift the curse.

The next morning, I was casually informed by a different neighbor that if you forget to put your garbage out, you can always call and they will make a special trip--just for you. What rapture!

Maybe my destiny can change. Maybe Emerson was a smart guy after all. I can become the girl I've decided to be:

The One who has the garbage man's number on speed dial.