The concept of going to the dump has changed a lot. I can vaguely picture Dad loading a truck when I was young. Things loosely thrown in the back. Stacked high.
When we lived in Granite Falls, the garbage went to the dump. Garbage service only came to end of the easement road, far, far away. So, the trash was loaded into the pick up truck and driven to the Drop Box.
There was a period of time where I would load my stuff, then stop in town to pick up Judy and her cans. It was actually a lot of fun! I connect trips to the dump to release, to joy, and to connection to people.
When I went alone, I inevitably conversed with random folks, dropping off their own discardables. We mused about our collections, or spoke of mysterious topics that came randomly to the situation. When no one else was there, I enjoyed the forested location, the quiet, and the sense of accomplishment.
Judy and I would stop for coffee, or just talk and laugh.
The dump at Airport Way is not as pleasing. It is loud, all concrete, and doesn’t provide for interaction with anyone. But my mind holds the same reward sensation. When I visit, I feel the connection and the happiness that history has built into my cognition. The relief of unburdening my world of trash, overwhelm, and clutter wins. I win.