True crime: Dumpster diver triggers domestic distrust
The weekly trip to play with our grandsons has evolved to the point that each visit now includes some sort of gourmet dinner prepared by our compulsively overachieving son-in-law. While Andrew whirls about mincing his herbs, searing his salmon and rubbing his brisket, I have fallen into a ritual of carrying the kitchen waste out to the big rollaway waste and recycling bins beside the garage.
“It’s the least I can do,” I insist while knowing full well it is instead, quite literally, the most I can do. I know when I’m outclassed. I make dinner; Andrew creates masterpieces.
A few weeks back while performing my galley boy duties, I found a large, clear, plastic tank there in the recycling bin amid the coffee cans, sports drink bottles and laundry detergent jugs. I quickly recognized it as the reservoir of the dogs’ watering station. This find was meant to be.
A quick aside: Conservation is not only my livelihood, but also it is a lifelong obsession rooted in an upbringing provided by children of The Great Depression. My parents could have walked the soles off a pair of shoes and then recycled the uppers into a wallet, a belt and a stylish hand purse. Frugality was our life force. I graduated from college in a secondhand suit and a pair of pre-owned wingtips for heaven’s sake. If I were ever forced to choose a tattoo, “Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.” would be at the top of the list.
Anyhow, that cast-off jug instantly became the solution to a vexing gardening dilemma that had seen a favorite pair of hosta plants consistently outcompeted for water by a neighboring maple tree. This tank was destined to become the perfect 5-gallon drip irrigation tank come springtime. I tossed it into the back of the car without another thought.
I explained the serendipity of the find to Kristin on the drive home.
“So did you ask Andrew if you could have it?” she said.
“Seriously?” I asked with a laugh. “Why would he give a care? It was in the recycling bin.”
This past weekend, over the din of laughing grandchildren and rigorous meal preparations, Kristin happened to mention my newfound treasure. You’d have thought she’d just solved the crime of the century.
“Hold it right there!” Charlotte said. “Dad, tell Andrew what you found in the trash!”
“Well, it wasn’t actually in the trash; it was in the recycling bin,” I started.
“Wait a minute, it was you?” Andrew shouted. “You took the water jug out of the bin?”
“Well, yeah, of course,” I said. “I have a really great use for … ”
“Andrew was half nuts with paranoia over that stupid jug,” Charlotte laughed. “He had all sorts of theories about ne’er-do-wells rooting through our trash: the neighbor, the delivery man, the mail carrier — anyone who has entered this neighborhood in the past week has been a suspect!”
“And here the perpetrator was within our midst the whole time,” Kristin said, “just one freakishly thrifty little old man.”
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.