Day at the Dump with My Mom

The DC Dump is a marvel! Situated off a shady, manicured road behind Catholic U in the Brookland neighborhood, it’s like a sanctuary for the junk-burdened like myself. Even in the blazing 102 degree July heat!

Mom and I are greeted upon entry into the vast concrete waste station by a smiling concierge in a neon vest who inquires about the nature of our junk. In our case, on this virgin trip, we have a little of everything. So we follow the cones through the maze of drop-off areas, organized by junk type. First stop paint, where the workers wheel a cart out to the Subaru and load it up with a half-dozen rusty cans of various whites, antique to ceiling to pure. Next stop, electronics; but I decide I can’t part with the ’82 Trinitron quite yet and vow to return with the obsolescent Gateway and a few dead monitors on the next trip.

The third and most important stop is paper, where Ivan happily relieves me of six bulging boxes of corporate history. Smiling he assures: you won’t miss this stuff, and I know he's right. Then he empties each file box into the mouth of the shredder and pulls the lever; and I listen to it churning and chomping away. A stack of empty boxes remains, and Ivan's colleague comes to retrieve them for cardboard recycling. It's a smooth and specialized operation.

Final stop is the dumpsters, where the bona fide junk goes, including my circa 1950 water-guzzling toilet. Another worker helps me pull unload it from the Subaru and heave it atop a pile of old suitcases, broken furniture and dead mattresses.

I slam the hatchback, brush off my hands, thank the guy profusely and wave as Mom and I pull away. I can't believe how light I feel, despite the oppressive heat, having shed a couple hundred pounds of dead weight!

Then there are the feelings of dismay associated with having accumulated all that crap in the first place(I've never considered myself a pack rat!) followed by a silent vow to keep life light and simple from here on out, at least over the next two years, in the Peace Corps. (With the 2-bag 100-lb travel weight restriction, I really have no choice in the matter.)

And there’s one more thing I feel (besides heat exhaustion) as Mom and I are directed out of the sun-drenched complex: pride in my city for getting its junk act together and providing such first-class waste service to the citizens.


Huh, I may miss DC after all.

On the way home we drive by the mural wall to visit the Dali Lama.