Black Trash Bags

Seemingly innocuous, over the course of my life, these transporters of trash have have held much more than trash and signaled changes to come or a departure from a state (literally OR figuratively in this case) of where I have been.

My first memory of black trash bags were of the garden variety. Good for grass, their humble, tidily bunched and tied forms lined our street after my father mowed the lawn. Nothing spectacular. Later, in high school, I remember sorting through one in a desperate bid to rescue a paper of some sort I had been writing for a class and misplaced. Black bags were for more serious jobs than the white, kitchen variety.

Then there was the time my high school sweetheart and I finally called the relationship over. His stuff was handily transported and personally delivered with butterflies in my stomach and sweaty palms to his apartment in the Black Bag. This moment of time and my use of the Bag changes. It is no longer just a vehicle for trash but one for belongings, its contents carefully placed inside.

I began college, and in a self-centered and prideful move I insisted on going to an out-of-state university. Having a very small car of the Japanese persuasion, boxes did not easily fit its curved backseat and diminutive trunk. Being over 5 hours from home frequent trips back and forth to retrieve items from home were not an option. The black bag fit the bill for the crushables: blankets, comforter, clothes and the like, packed carefully with my Mom to arrive for the only time on my bed and in my drawers folded. Upon arrival at the dorm, the Bag was easily tossed into the trash- an economical version of luggage. It was not long before I bravely journeyed east to the coast to work at my first corporate job. Again, the Bag is put into hot use. The car a little older and less water tight held my few precious possessions as I lugged them up 3 flights of stairs to my first apartment with 2 mean roommates. This time the Bag was also used for trash. The mean roommates and I shared the responsibilities of lugging the Bag down the scary back stairs to the scary dumpster. Never living in a city previous to that, well aware of my femaleness and youth I carried the Bag a bit protectively like a shield and making sure I had a good handle on the slippery top in case I needed to fend off back alley rats, cats or worse, scary men.

Later I move home. Bags in force. My mother journeys to my coast town and helps me pack/shove/push/tamp the many Bags into my car. Amazing what two women can do when pressed for time and space! The Bag features as inexpensive luggage again, but this time also as a ticket to freedom from a sort of oppression I encountered in that city. I was free!

Now many years later and many moves under my belt, the Black Bag has featured in many ways in our household: as an impenetrable-to-the-sugar-crazed-eye Christmas candy hiding spot, Easter basket storage, Christmas tree needle catcher, broken mirror and glass receptable and even apparel for my children as they toss eggs to one another in a game (after all, black looks good on everyone).

Today I filled many black bags. Some bound for charity. Others bound for the dump. I was sickened to see how much STUFF we have accumulated; how much we waste. Some of what ended up in the Black Bag I gleaned from its cousin the white kitchen bag that was being used as storage. Today, just as with the many other times I have filled Black Bags, marks a departure of sorts. I will not allow so much stuff into our home. The old adage: "What goes IN must come OUT" is certainly true with homes. I do not care to pay the emotional toll that goes along with owning so much stuff- the organization, the care of the article, the fear of its break/loss/theft. As a parent I struggle to organize my children's things, glean the good, judge its value to the owner and decide the item's fate. Stuff is often a burden and the Black Bag- a trash bag- is the vehicle to transport it to the curb, or guiltily drop it at the docks in the back alley of the Goodwill and speed away. Today I will begin to pay closer attention to the bags that come IN to my house- the gift bags, white kitchen bags thoughtfully packed with hand-me-downs, shopping bags and grocery bags. I will weigh the value, and the cost much more closely.

Unscripted. This is for real.

Early morning light accuses my eyes that they are still open. The baby has called and crowed even before the rooster- if in fact we had one (which thankfully we do not.)

Dodging helicopters (of the maple tree variety) I sojourn down the drive way to rescue the damp rag that again discusses the physical abuse that teachers receive from their students over many pages. Praising God that I homeschool, I envision with heaven-like light my coffee maker.

Inside, I put down the newspaper on the stove and in the process spill a drink over it causing the electric ignitor to click. click. click. click. click. **** sigh*** At this point I should have taken the warm squirming bundle of love back to his bed and not left it. However due to various people's ineptitude I am driving 7 children to school.

After feeding and dressing the chicklets it is time to get in el van when the most dreaded word in all the world for anyone to hear is yelled.

FIRE

As if in slow motion I push past the towers of children (they are all starting to get startlingly tall) to see what is on fire. Dear eldest boy in an attempt to right the travesty of The Click and the Knob has lit the newspaper on fire and is valiantly trying to get it outside. I grab it throw it in the sink, douse it appropriately and (adrenaline pumping) attempt to recover from the site of the blazing inferno, while trying to soothe very agitated children.

Queue the phone.

Painter. We can come TODAY! In an hour! (I think: Not Monday with a weekend for me to prepare!?)

My face: Envision the old western of the woman tied to the railroad track watching the locomotive barrel toward her.

My response. "Sure."

Driving home in my office, masquerading as a gigantic freezer with 4 wheels and 15 seats, I retuen my friend's call- I had forgotten I had agreed to take care of her pets while she is away this weekend.

Crap. At least there is a cute bunny. (sneeeeze)

Next scene. After returning (1 hour later) from dropping the few that go to public school off it is reported to me by reliable sources that the dog has eaten the remaining donuts in the pack (chocolate) and all I can picture is the dog puking. Great. Something to look forward to.

Rushing upstairs I attempt to secret 3 years of beads, doll clothes, hair barrettes and dust before the glint of the windshield in the sun from the painters van tells me that I am too late. Looking forward to coming clean with them about my lack of preparation and poor warden skills (can't get the inmates to keep their cells clean) I meet them at the door with the beginning prickles of perspiration on my brow, on the back of my neck. I also realize that I am very tired. It is only 9:11 am.

The painter, who reminds me of the boy in high school who you could never take seriously because he was friends with all the girls, picks at the wallpaper, scrapes at the wall paper, wets, tigers, peels at the paper. No dice. He leaves to go to the Big Orange Money Pit to rent a steamer. All I see are dollar signs being torn from the walls. Laughing to myself that: who knew a house bought with wall paper on every blessed wall could be so expensive, I go on the rest of the day to knock over rice, sugar, burn an entire pot of rice, burn the steak under the broiler while attempting to simultaneously check homework and hold babies.

Noticing that the rain had not come in earnest I put the baby in the highchair near the dear eldest to retrieve (some peace) and columbine from the side bed. Flowers in the house are of great solace and joy to me- and boy did I ever need both today!! On my way back in the dear eldest son mentions that he has heart burn and proceeds to throw up by the swing set, outside.

"There goes lunch." He says. (He has always been a great puker with a hilarious sense of humor.)

Now: proceed with rubbing back, gathering of ginger ale and the rescue of dinner for the other 8 people I question the wisdom of carving the meat with such a sharp knife. Dare I trouble the angels to protect me from the steel?

I spend an hour happily playing with the 2 babies while dear eldest discusses Barbie anatomy- especially the alarming lack of pelvic feature that Ken does not have. (He queries: is Ken like part girl or something?) I explain it is like underwear- all squished down. HA! Disaster averted! We did not have to discuss Barbie's features at length as we were saved by the toddler ready for bed.

Two girls with no room to sleep in their room (due toe the painters). SLUMBER PARTY in the other girl's room! (on the stereo: well, not the stereo more like on the plush purple frog that raps "Hey shorty we're gonna party like it's your birthday..." played, like, 50 times.

May I live through tonight...