​There was an old song by Jim Stafford called Spiders and Snakes. The song is about Mary Lou, a school-age girl who is sweet on a classmate. She invites him to walk her home from school. On the way, she tells him, "I don’t have to go right home, and I would kinda like to be alone some, long as you would."
The young man answered, "Me too." So, they took a stroll and wound up down by a swimming hole; she wanted to get romantic. But in his adolescent awkwardness, the school boy finds a frog in the water by a hollow log; he shakes it at Mary Lou, saying, "This frog's for you!"
Mary Lou didn't like the frog and thus sang the famous refrain, "I don't like spiders and snakes, and that ain't what it takes to love me." I love that song!
Years later, the song inspired me to catch frogs and such, and on occasion, I've shaken one or two at my wife Melissa, saying, "This frog's for you!" Melissa was not impressed and responded a little differently than Mary Lou; as a matter of fact, one time, she locked me out of the house. Even though she is not afraid of them, my wife apparently did not want the reptile that close to her face when she wasn't expecting it. I'm not afraid of critters either, but spiders and snakes are different.  
Although I'm not afraid of spiders or snakes, decades ago, we made a deal: (me, the spiders, and the snakes.) Don't come in my house and you get to live. Simple. A spider in my house is not afforded the benefits of the 'catch and release' program. A spider in my house is compressed and wrapped in burial cloth (toilet paper) and given a proper septic burial. I've never had a snake in the house, but I would release the snake. I reciprocate the same courtesy when I am in their environment.
I will stop the mower to let a snake pass in the grass; that's his home, and I respect that. Spiders in the yard will have the chance to go away, but if they insist on staying where I'm working – well, one of us must go, and it ain't gonna be me. I never kill bees, and I even let a wasp go unless they build a nest too close to my home. Wasps are just not socially well-adjusted.
A couple weeks ago, a swarm of paper wasps built a nest on the side of my Alaskan camper – right by the door. I had intended to remove them at night, but I got busy and forgot. The other day, I needed a tool from the camper. There hadn't been any activity around the wasp nest for over a week. So, I carefully opened the camper door. HOLY CRAP!! The nest was indeed alive and well!
I had no idea how so many wasps could be inside that little nest! They came out like an army enraged, ready for battle to protect their fort. There were probably only a couple dozen, but when angry wasps are swarming – even a few can seem like thousands. I ran for dear life and dodged what could have been a disaster.
I went into the house looking for wasp spray, while giving the raging insects time to calm down. I get the wasp spray in a can that will shoot from twenty feet. "Dang, we're out of wasp spray?" I wrote it on the shopping list, left Nova Mae in the house, and returned to the yard. It would be hand-to-hand combat, one against an army of at least twenty-four. I really needed that tool from the camper.
By the time I returned to the camper, all the wasps were back inside – except two sentries who stood guard at the opening to the nest. I lost the sprayer for my garden hose, so I couldn't blast the nest with water from a safe distance. Instead, I picked up a six-foot-long 1X2 board and sneaked in from the side. One of the wasps saw me. "Look! It's your mom," I said, pointing in the other direction.
When the two wasps looked for their mom, I quickly poked the nest with the square tip of the board. The nest fell into the grass; wasps were swarming as thick as smoke from a wildfire! Before retreating, I smashed the fallen nest four or five times. "Haha! Take that, you evil little bas… Oh crap, they're coming after me!" I quickly threw my board like a skilled medieval warrior throws a spear, lancing the center of the grounded nest. Then – I ran like a cowardly chicken! I'm not a violent or vicious person – but I was battling wasps! I would have been more gentle with any other insect.
Over the last couple of months, I've been working on deck projects outside. I've come across a lot of pine sawyer beetles. Most of God's creations have a natural beauty, but not the sawyer beetles – they're just plain ugly and awkward, too. They fly with their body horizontal (as a pilot I assure you that is not aerodynamic) Well, the little beetles aren't so bad when they have their smooth black skin, but as they mature, their skin becomes rough, brown, and grey splotchy colored, and they are creepy – especially the males.
The male sawyer beetle has booming antennae twice the length of their body, that just hang in the air while they fly. It the most uncoordinated form of aviation I’ve ever seen. Sawyer beetle faces are ugly, too, with bulging eyes, and you can see their sharp pinchers! (They do bite.) Ick!
While working on the deck the other night, a sawyer beetle landed on my face! At first, I thought it was a giant mosquito, but its feet were clingy like a June bug, and then one of his antennas was actually poking me in the eye! Still, I didn't squish him. I grabbed the sawyer beetle off my face and threw him.
The beetle flew in his clumsy way and then landed on the top board of the deck railing where my carpenter's square was sitting. Wow! The insect on a measuring device showed how large he was, and I'd never seen one so big. After taking photos, I flung him off my square and into the yard. I'd had about enough insects for a while, but all insects serve a purpose; even the wasps, although I have no idea what their purpose would be. Still, I'd seen enough of the ugly; I needed to find some of nature's beauty.
The following day, I took a break from the deck to work on a trailer for a few hours. It's an old trailer I dug out of the woods on our property with my neighbor Gene. I will convert the trailer into a cute, raised backyard garden. I can't wait to see it filled with flowers.
While working on the trailer, a dragonfly flew very close to me and landed on the black frame's edge. I like dragonflies – I think they are pretty, and they are expert fliers with their four wings, especially compared to the sawyer beetle; it’s like beauty and the beast. Plus, dragonflies eat a lot of mosquitos, that’s a bonus. But this fella just sat on the black steel looking at me. He was the most beautiful dragonfly I'd ever seen and was only inches away from me. "Take a picture," I said. But as I reached for my cell phone, my movement scared him away. But not for long.
Within a few moments, something landed on my arm. I immediately thought it was a sawyer beetle, but when I looked down, it was the same dragonfly; his beauty was unmistakable, like no other. He climbed up my bicep and onto my shirt sleeve. I watched as he continued up my sleeve and came to rest on my shoulder. I was looking into his eyes, and he into mine, as if he wanted to tell me something. We gazed upon one another for at least thirty seconds. "Take a picture," I said. But as I reached for the camera, he flew away again. "Boy, if I never see him again, I will never forget his beauty." But he wasn't gone long.
The dragonfly returned, hovered around my face briefly, then landed about ten feet away. A few years ago. Melissa and our granddaughters built a fairy garden under the crabapple tree. The dragonfly landed on a log left over from the fairy garden. He was even more beautiful sitting where his color contrasted the brown log and green blades of grass. "You can come take my picture if you'd like," he told me.
I slowly took my phone from my pocket to take his picture. He seemed very comfortable with me, so I knelt in the grass next to him. I took several photos and told him, "You are the most beautiful dragonfly I've ever seen." He stayed on the log for a few minutes, occasionally batting his wings. I thought he would fly away, but he was just enjoying some sunshine. "I've never seen a red dragonfly," I told him. "You are special." I watched him for a couple more minutes until he flew away. "So long, my friend, feel free to come back anytime."
I opened my cell phone and typed, "How rare is a red dragonfly?" The first search returned, "Red dragonflies are extremely rare – so seeing one is a blessing in itself." Next, I searched for the significance of seeing a red dragonfly.
The Japanese consider the red dragonfly "very sacred," symbolizing courage, strength, and happiness. The American Indians believe red dragonflies can "bring a time of rejuvenation after a long period of trials and hardship." I am grateful nature sent this amazing creature my way.  
Ole Mary Lou might not like spiders and snakes, but I don’t mind them. Just how blessed am I that this little guy, a red dragonfly, should visit me three times on a beautiful sunny afternoon in the Northwoods? Life is good!

​I was on my way to northern California, pulling a Scamp trailer. It was late, around midnight, and I was in the middle of nowhere Nevada when the state trooper turned on his lights to pull me over. I wasn't speeding, so I had no idea why I was being stopped.
I greeted him, "Good evening. I usually know why I'm getting pulled over, but I have no idea tonight."
The officer laughed, then said, "You don't have any lights on the trailer."
"Really?" I was surprised. "I just had the wiring on the car fixed before this trip, and the trailer is brand new." He told me, "Your brake lights are working, but you don't have any marker lights."
I sighed with disappointment. "That's exactly what I had it in for."
The officer shined his flashlight for me as I wiggled the wiring connection between the car and the trailer to see if it would come on. No such luck. I opened the back hatch of my car and got into the spare tire compartment, showing him the part. "This is the new controller they just installed." I checked all the connections—they looked good. I was at a loss.
He asked me, "Where are you going? "North of Sacramento," I replied.
"I can't let you drive down the road without marker lights," he said, but he also had a couple suggestions. "I can call a tow service for you, or there's a rest area a few miles up the road. If you turn your flashers on, I'll follow you to make sure you get there safe. You can spend the night there, and in the morning, drive into Reno to get your lights checked out."
"I'd really appreciate it if you'd follow me to the rest area," I said, not wanting to spend the money for a tow truck.
Although I got on the road bright and early the next morning, I was behind schedule. I didn't stop in Reno to have the lights repaired. I would drop the Scamp off during daylight hours and drive home without a trailer. All the lights on the car were working, so I headed for Cobb, California, north of Sacramento.
As I got nearer to my destination, I passed a sign that read, "Welcome to Lake County, California." It caused me to laugh, as I live in Lake County, Minnesota. I said aloud, "Two thousand miles and thirty-one hours of driving, and I end up right where I started - Lake County."
It was a gorgeous morning for a drive. At 65 degrees, the air smelled very fresh, and the clear skies were a brilliant blue. I turned off Highway 29 onto County Road 137 - the final stretch to my destination. The drive was thrilling, with big hills, deep valleys, and a continuous ribbon of winding curves. As I drove up the mountains, I passed farm fields of fresh produce and orchards with dark green citrus trees in perfect rows. It's a beautiful part of California, with all the agriculture - and a pleasant contrast to the big cities like Los Angeles, San Francisco, or San Diego. These are the places most people think of when California comes to mind.
As I rounded a curve, a red Saturn was stalled on the opposite side of the road. The driver was on the shoulder, looking at a cell phone outside his car. I checked my phone and had no signal. I didn't have time, but if I was stranded without cell phone service, I would want someone to stop and help me. I made a quick U-turn to see if I could help him. I pulled up behind him and got out of my car. "Need a hand?" I asked.
"It's my battery." He said, explaining, "It's only holding seven volts."
I said, "I don't have cables, but if you have a pair, I could give you a jump start."
The man explained he didn't have jumper cables but had an alternative suggestion: "My car has a manual transmission. Maybe we could push it and bump start it."
"That should work," I said.
The man was wearing a green camouflage US Air Force t-shirt. "Is that a real Air Force t-shirt?" I asked.
He laughed, "No. It's a joke, but I have real Air Force shirts at home."
"You served then," I asked.
"Yes, at Castle Air Force Base from '83 to '87. Castle closed a few years after that." He told me.
I learned his name was Chai, but I wasn't clear how he said it. He spelled it "C-H-A-I." That's what he said. What I heard was C-H-I-A.
"Chia. Like a Chia Pet?"
"It's pronounced Kye, rhymes with guy," he told me. I finally got it. Chai said he was born in Thailand and came to the United States when he was nineteen years old. "I joined the Air Force because I could earn my citizenship that way." He said, "Plus, I learned a trade without paying for a tech school."
Getting back to trying to bump-start the car, he said, "You get in, and I'll push." Then he told me he couldn't push very far because he had a heart condition.
"Dude," I insisted, "if you have a heart condition, YOU get in, and I'll push."
"Are you sure? I feel bad having you push my car." He said.
I replied, "And I'll feel even worse if you have a heart attack pushing it. Now get in." We shared a laugh over that, and Chai got into the driver's seat.
"Okay, I'm ready." He called out the window. I leaned into the vehicle and placed both hands on the edge of the trunk lid. I pushed with all my strength, but the car wouldn't budge. Chai called out the window, "Oops. I had the parking brake set. It's off now." I laughed, then started pushing. Once I had the car rolling, Chai popped the clutch, but the car didn't start.
"Let's try it again," I called to him and started pushing. He popped the clutch a second time, but the car still didn't start. "Let's go again," I hollered. After the third failed attempt, the car still wouldn't start, and we reached a point where we would be pushing it uphill.
Chai set the parking brake and got out. "I'm going to have to walk home and get another battery. Seven volts just isn't enough to start it." He said.
"That's an odd thing to say," I said, "Most people wouldn't know how many volts a battery was holding. How do you know it has seven volts?"
Chai answered, "I tested it with a volt meter. I was an electrician in the Air Force; I worked on automotive electrical systems." "Oh, really?" I said, smiling, thinking about my taillight trouble.
I told Chai about my problem. He said, "You should have a little box in your car to control those lights."
"Yes," I said, "it's in the spare tire compartment. Could you take a look at it?"
"Let me grab my meter," he said. I opened the rear hatch, and lifted the wheel well cover in my car. Chai spotted the part right off and began testing it. "Your controller is bad," he told me.
"It's brand new; I just had it installed three days ago," I said.
Chai replied, "Oh, well, if it's brand new, then it's not bad – it's defective." We shared a good laugh about that.
Chai said, "I can run a jumper wire to bypass the controller if you'd like, and then your lights will work again."
I responded, "I would really appreciate that." He grabbed a small piece of wire, a couple of connectors, and a crimping tool. In just a few minutes, he had the lights working. "I really appreciate this, Chai. What do I owe you?" I asked.
Nothing. It's my way of saying thanks for stopping to see if I needed help."
I stopped to help him, but he ended up helping me.
I was now late for my appointment to drop off the Scamp. I thought, "You're already late; what will it hurt to be a little later? This guy has a heart condition, and Lord knows how far he has to walk through these hills." I asked Chai, "You said you were going to walk home. I'm on my way to Cobb; which way do you live?"
His eyes lit up, "I'm right on your way. I live on 137, about three miles before you get to Cobb."
"This day is just full of coincidences. Jump in; I'll give you a ride." I said.
On the way to his house, we passed by a KFC restaurant. I commented about it, and he asked, "Do you like KFC?"
I laughed. "It's my weakness," I confessed. When we got to Chai's house, he said, "You can let me off at the gate; I only live a few doors down." Chai gave me his phone number. "When you're done with your trailer deal, call me. I'd like to treat you to lunch for helping me." He said.
I laughed, "But I didn't help you. You helped me." We said our farewells, and I drove down the road.
I called Leigh. "Sorry I'm late," I said, "I'll be there with your Scamp in five minutes."
"Don't worry about it," she said. "I'm just excited it's finally here." It took longer than expected to show her how everything worked on the trailer. I was there for almost three hours, but I don't mind. I wanted to be sure she was comfortable using her new trailer.
After leaving her house, I planned to head straight home, but I thought more about Chai. I think he really wanted to go to lunch, so I called him. "It took me longer than I thought," I said. Do you still have time to go eat?"
"Of course," he answered, "can you pick me up at the gate?"
"I'll be there in five minutes," I replied.
When Chai got in the passenger seat, I asked him, "Do you need a ride back to your car?"
"No," he said, "I picked up my friend, John. He went with me to put a new battery in it. The car started right up. I drove it, and he returned my other car to my house. John will eat with us, then I'll run him home."
"Perfect," I said, then suggested, "There's a McDonald's up ahead. Do you want to stop there?"
"No way!" Chai said, "You told me you had a weakness for KFC, and I'm going to treat you to KFC." We shared a good laugh about that, then drove to the Colonel's place.
We had some nice conversations during dinner. Chai asked if I had ever been to the Redwood Forest. I told him I had not. "Man, you should go! It's not very far from here at all." He said.
John added, "Yeah, you're already this far west; you might as well go. It's awesome."
I told them, "I would love to, but that's a trip I'm going to save for a time when my wife can be with me." With that, we said farewell, and I jumped in the car to head east.
Just the other day, I was cleaning out a box of old papers. I came across the notes I had written about that day when I met Chai, including the paper where he wrote down his phone number. That was one year ago.
My wife and I have since been to the Redwood Forest, but I never did get the story written. I wondered if he still had the same phone number. I picked the phone up and called. There was no answer, so I left a message: "Hey, this is Tom. I'm looking for Chai and wondering if you remember me. If this is his number, give me a callback." Unfortunately, I forgot how he pronounced his name, and I said Chia, like a Chia Pet.
Over the past year, I have often thought of Chai. How ironic that I didn't have time to stop and help him, but I stopped anyway, and he ended up helping me! It's funny how things work out that way sometimes.
Almost immediately, my phone rang. "Hi, Tom. It's pronounced Kye, and it rhymes with guy. Of course, I remember you. You helped me with my car that day," he said.
I laughed, "But I didn't help you. You helped me."

​One day in the early 1970s, Dad came home with a new appliance. It was heavy, so he had my big brothers Peter and Danny carry it into the house. My siblings and I gathered around to see the new thing. The unit was harvest-gold in color, matched our refrigerator, range, and dishwasher, and was portable. It stood about kitchen counter height with a big drawer that opened from the front. I hoped it was a new dishwasher, but it looked too small to be a dshwasher.
We already had a portable dishwasher—a top-loader that was very awkward for a little kid to load and unload the dishes, especially from the bottom rack. One day, I was balancing myself on my stomach over the edge of the dishwasher, reaching for the clean plates below, with my feet dangling off the floor.
My brother Gerard grabbed my feet and lifted them, acting like he would push me in. Unfortunately, I lost my balance, and Gerard wasn't strong enough to hold me by my ankles. I fell into the dishwasher! Plates hurt when you land on the edges with your head, which scared the daylights out of me! But revenge was sweet.
When it was Gerard's turn to load the dishwasher, I closed the lid on him while he was bent over the machine. Gerad was yelling for me to let him out. "Say, uncle," I demanded. When Gerard finally surrendered and said Uncle, I still didn't let him out. "Now, say Uncle Tom is a nice guy." My brother was still yelling when Mom came into the kitchen.
Although I tried to explain what Gerard had done to me a few days earlier, Mom was disinterested and sided with my brother. "That dishwasher is not a toy," Mom scolded us both. Now you can just take the dishes out and wash them by hand." That was fine with me; I never liked that dishwasher anyway. 
When we wanted to run the dishwasher, we had to roll it over in front of the sink. Kitchen carpets were popular in those days, and the loaded machine was heavy and hard to push across the carpeting. Gerad and I would push the dishwasher together. Next, we had to connect the special hose to the kitchen faucet. The hose contraption was two hoses with one head: the top hose was for clean water going in, and the bottom was the drain hose.
A tab had to be held down while lifting the head up and pressing it onto a special aerator on the faucet. If you didn't have it on securely, water would spray everywhere when the faucet was turned on. I hoped Dad's new appliance was a new dishwasher, but it was too small. "What is it," the kids all wanted to know.
"It's a trash compactor," Dad boasted. "With this, we should be able to get our weekly trash in one load." Dad immediately demonstrated the new unit. "You have to use these special leak-proof bags." The bags were heavy paper and looked like they were wax coated on the inside. After carefully folding the bag's top over the bin's edges, Dad took the garbage can from under the kitchen sink. "Who's supposed to be taking the trash out? This can is overflowing," Dad complained – however, he needed a lot of trash for his demonstration.
We didn't have plastic trash bags, so we used paper sacks from the grocery store, which were not leak-proof. When Dad lifted the liner from the trash can, the bottom of the sack fell out, and garbage spilled onto the carpeted floor. "Dog gone it," Dad complained. "If you kids wouldn't let the trash get so full, the sacks would hold this just fine!"
Dad kept as much trash in the bag as possible by holding the bottom of the sack together. He then placed it in the compactor, pulling out a couple of glass jars. Next, he gathered the debris off the floor, setting any glass to the side, and added it to the trash in the bin, which was about three-quarters full. "I don't see how this is going to hold a week's worth of trash," I said. What's the advantage?"
"Watch this," Dad said. He plugged in the machine, and a light came on. The green light turned off, and a red light came on when I pushed the start button. The compactor hummed at first, then started to growl. I could hear things smashing and crunching inside; it sounded angry. Finally, the gadget hummed again, the red light went out, and the green light reappeared. Dad opened the drawer to show us how all that garbage was reduced to a few inches inside the compactor. "See how much space is saved," Dad said." Just remember, you cannot put glass into the compactor," he cautioned.
Dad went on to give training on properly using the compactor, but by this point, he had lost half the siblings. "This is not a toy; it is a machine that needs to be operated carefully," Dad said. "Used properly, it will last for years to come." But there were some things Dad didn't consider.
When the compactor was full, a yellow light would come on, indicating it was time to change the bag. The problem was that the bag inside the machine was holding several trash cans; it was heavy and difficult to handle, especially for a couple of skinny young boys who struggled to move the portable dishwasher across the carpeted floor. Still, Gerard and I managed to get the liner out of the bin and out the back door.
The two of us slid the heavy "cube" to the garage. Unfortunately, by the time we got to the garbage cans, we wore a hole in the liner and left a trail of garbage and garbage juice on the concrete driveway behind us. After we cleaned up the mess and took the garbage cans to the curb, we returned to the house. Another thing Dad failed to consider was the curiosity of young boys, and I had an idea.
Despite my brother's warnings of trouble to come, I decided to test the compactor. "Sure, it can smash an empty can—big deal—even I can do that," I said. We should see if it can smash a full can." I put a new liner inside the trash compactor, then a can of green peas and a tall can of salmon in the bin. I closed the drawer and pressed the start button.
The machine hummed and then growled. I was really struggling, and I was laughing. "You're not as tough as you think," I taunted the machine. Soon, it started to smell hot, and then I quit running. The lights went out, and the portable dishwasher by the sink quit running. Uh oh. Did I break it?" I was worried.
"You probably just blew a fuse," Gerard said. He was smart about those things and went to the basement to check the fuse box. Soon, the lights came back on, and the dishwasher started running again. The trash compactor hummed; the red light went out, and the green light came back on. I opened the drawer, and we looked inside. Both cans were still standing upright; neither was damaged.
"Those cans are stronger standing upright than they would be laying on their side," Gerard said. I challenged his statement. "Of course they are," he said. "What do you think Dad taught us to cut out the ends and lay the cans on their side to flatten them?" I had to admit, what he said made good sense.
I laid the can of peas and salmon on their side. "As long as we're breaking rules, we might as well break them all," I said. I took a partial jar of mayonnaise from the refrigerator and added it to the concoction.
Gerard quickly clarified, "WE are not breaking the rules; you are!" Even though he distanced himself from my experiment, he offered his expertise, "You need to lay the mayo on its side as well." I did and then pushed the start button.
The machine again growled and struggled a bit, but then we heard the glass jar break, followed by two crunching pops. Soon, the machine hummed, and the green light came back on. We laughed as we opened the drawer, expecting to see an explosion, but it wasn't all that spectacular.
The mayo was pooled with green juice from the mashed peas, and the salmon mainly was juice with just a bit of meat from the can. It was rather disappointing. "You better clean that up," Gerard warned. But I had no intention of cleaning up this mess.
"Why clean up what can be covered up," I said. (If I knew then what I know today, I could have been a successful politician with that kind of logic.) I put a folded paper grocery sack over the gooey mess. "That sack will soak up the juice," I reasoned, closing the drawer. But there were a few things I failed to consider:

1. The experiment was done on trash day. It would be a whole week before the trash compactor was emptied again.
2. The reason for not putting glass into the machine is that it will cut the liner like a razor blade!
3. In the early 70s, very few houses had air-conditioning – including ours.

      
By midweek, the garbage smelled bad; by the weekend, it was very ripe; by trash day, it was putrid! Looking for the source, Dad opened the compactor.
Dad lifted the liner, and juice ran from the obviously cut bottom of the bag (I was wrong about the paper sack absorbing the liquid). The aroma of rotten fish and spoiled mayonnaise permeated the room. "Did someone put a glass jar in the compactor," Dad asked. "Dog gone it, I told you kids, 'No glass in the compactor.' Now, it's probably ruined. If you can't use the compactor correctly, don't use it at all." He was furious, and the investigation began.
"Who did this?" Naturally, no one confessed. "Of course," he ranted, "No one ever did it." Despite several attempts to clean the unit, the smell never did go away, and Mom eventually made him get rid of the stinky, harvest-gold, portable trash compactor.
Before he bought the trash compactor, Dad taught us to save space in the trash can by compacting the trash manually. "Cereal boxes can be opened and flattened," Dad demonstrated. "Then, they will stand up on the side of the bag."  We cut both ends out of tin cans and stomped them flat. Back then, there weren't many plastic bottles; milk and pop came in returnable glass containers, and even Prell Shampoo came in glass bottles. I remember the commercial where they dropped a white pearl into the green shampoo to show their product's thickness; you could watch it sink slowly through the clear glass.
Eventually, Prell and other shampoos switched to hard plastic bottles. Prell changed its commercial to show a bottle of their shampoo falling in the shower and bouncing off the tub floor rather than shattering.
When empty, the plastic Prell bottles went straight into the trash. Everything went into the trash; we didn't have recycling yet. Now, we recycle.  
 
At our house, we recycle what we can. I was accustomed to weekly recycling collection in Iowa, but here in northern Minnesota, they only come once a month, on the first Monday. I'm in charge of recycling at our house and keep up with it quite well. With more limited recycling collection days, I reduce the mass by flattening aluminum and tin cans, cereal, and food boxes. Smaller cardboard boxes are flattened, and bigger boxes are cut into flat pieces and put into a box of boxes, so to speak. I learned this skill from my dad.
Boxes are more challenging for me to get rid of because, like many people, I find myself saying, "That's a good box. I'll have a use for that box one day." Everyone likes boxes and has good use for them.
People trying to ship something or folks who are moving are always looking for good boxes. But. Too many boxes were piling up at our house, so I headed to the basement to reduce the ruble.
"Don't cut up that Target box," my wife hollered from the back bedroom.
"Which Target box," I asked. "There are several down here."
"The bigger Target box," Melissa answered. It's the perfect size to start a box of things to take to the Dilly Dally Shop." Everybody needs a good box. I especially like a themed box to surprise someone with cookies.
For example, Sean was working on my truck, which needed a new bushing. It came in a perfect size box, so I texted Sean, "Save that box for me." I could send the box with cookies to my nephew Alex. (Alex is always working on his hotrod car.) When he got the package, he would look at it and say, "Precision Bearings? I didn't order anything from them."
I ordered replacement parts for a faucet. It arrived in a small box marked Moen Faucets. I can surprise my brother Dan (the plumber) by sending cookies to his house in this box. When he gets it, Dan will ask his wife, "Why are they sending parts to our house instead of the shop?" I love surprises. So does our cat, Edgar Allan.
Over a month ago, I surprised Melissa with a twelve-pack of Corona beer and a lime. Melissa put the beer in the fridge, and Edgar immediately jumped into the empty box. Even cats love boxes. A month later, the Corona box is still on the living room floor as "Edgar's box." He will hide inside.
One day, Melissa was standing in the living room. Edgar pushed his paw through the carrying slot on the side of the box and grabbed her leg. It scared my unsuspecting wife, and she jumped and gave a little scream. Our dog Nova Mae and I laughed pretty hard about that. A few days later, Edgar jetted from the box and attacked an unsuspecting canine on her way to a comfy chair. I laughed alone that time. Boxes have historically been a source of much entertainment.
My daughters loved it when I would bring home a refrigerator box. They would put it in the backyard, cut doors and windows in the side, paint it, and play in the box until the rain melted the cardboard.
One year, our daughter Annie asked for a box for her birthday. She didn't want any 'store-bought' gifts, just a big box from my friend Mike, who had the box store (Mike's TV and Appliances).
Sometimes, I'll use a box for extra trash when cleaning out the basement, working on a house project, or cutting up other boxes for recycling.
This morning, being the first Monday of the month, I rounded up the recycling to take to the curb. I stomped a few cans and flattened several more boxes (saving a couple because they were too cool to throw away). I thought about the trash compactor my dad bought way back when. I've been compacting trash my whole life—first manually, then with the trash compactor, and now back to manually again. I prefer doing it manually.
I never liked that trash compactor, anyway. The only two good things to come from it were an experiment gone wrong and the box it came in.
The box was the perfect size and shape; I might need it someday, so I hid it in the attic of our garage. Several months later, I cut a hole in the top of the box, and one on each side, then spray-painted the box silver. I used black crayons to add some detail, and for Halloween, I went trick-or-treating as a robot. I love boxes.