I’m often amazed at the amount of trash blowing down the street and stuck in bush branches on a public field. Or fences. Or any of the paths in Columbia. When I worked at Hersheypark all those summers ago, one of the tasks we supervisor-types got really good at was locating and disposing of trash.
I guess the habit really stuck, because rarely can I go anywhere without finding trash on the ground. And most of the time, I pick it up and, more often than not, either bring it home to recycle or toss in the can.
It’s become such a habit that even my six-year-old daughter points it out to me:
“Uh, mom? Look! Here’s trash!”
My reply is typically, “Very good! Let’s take it home and take care of it.” And sometimes, she even picks it up. I draw the line at allowing my children to handle anything that looks like it might draw blood or even remotely resembles anything that might have someone else’s body fluid. Luckily, those items are the rare exception to what we find. Usually, it’s plastic bottles, food wrappers, and misplaced schoolwork.
It’s become such a ritual that I’m contemplating carrying plastic grocery bags around so that I have some place to keep the trash until I get home. One day, on the walk home from school, I found so much trash on the path that I simply couldn’t hold any more. I was sad that I needed to leave some behind, but pleased I took the time to clean up the neighborhood at least a little.
You see, I don’t care if my neighbors care whether or not they have trash blowing by their homes, down the street, or collecting at the school yard or playgrounds.
I care. It matters to me. And it matters that I teach my children that we must care for the world we live in: one piece of trash at a time.
Connect with Me