Sometimes, I dig up things in Uncle Bob’s garden. I’ve asked both he and my father if they remember ever burying garbage in the garden but they say this never happened. Still, whenever I dig up a little broken thing, I save it in a jar at The Coop.
There are a lot of broken things in this world–broken institutions, a broken economy, broken families, and broken people.
I save these broken things to remember that not all broken things are garbage.
Your grandparents didn’t build that house, they bought it, yes? It likely had a trash pit and a burn pit, and the contents of either were likely spread out like compost over time. Older, more isolated houses used to bury their garbage and then cover it with rocks (plenty of those in New England), but of course it took them a year to generate what we generate in a few days.
I remember exploring old farm sites up in LItchfield with my father and finding a girl’s leather shoe, largely still intact, that was at least 70 years old. I wondered who wore it, was it only for special occasions, and whatever happened to her.
You know what I’m going to say, Reggie? You are a wonderful storyteller and should have your own blog. But since you reject the notion, thank you for parking your thoughts here.