This morning, I went out to dump my trash. The bag had been nipped a bit by the possum who thinks he's my roommate, or perhaps cousin. The sun was shining, everyone was already up, planning for just how they were going to get to the beach in the next 30 minutes before the rest of LA arrived to our little village. It was perfect Venice: slight breeze, lots of chirping birds, wind in the palms, jasmine still smelling sweet...I unlock the back gate and step into the alley where we keep our cans. There was a perfectly coiffed and dressed older woman--at least in her 70s and OMG are those pearls--going through my trash.
And she was my neighbor from down the street, half a block over.
Did I freeze? I think I went to speak, but likely I frowned. A frown is my default "processing" face. It is rare that I don't turn up the data, so usually the frown becomes a blank look, then a smile. But this morning, I think, at about just the same moment I recognized her, she recognized me, too. And not to be outdone, lest this situation be any more awkward, she said, "Oh, hello" as I was turning to get back into the gate quick before I burst into tears. I said hello back. It took the edge off.
Now, I am not trying to be judgmental here, I used to keep my bottles myself and then take them into a center to get my money back. Here in California,
when you buy any beverage, a user fee is levied against the container. If you recycle at a designated center you
get your cash back. If you recycle someone else's recycling, you get their cash back and hence, an instant profit. Being the thoroughly mismanaged state government that it is, California requires you to report any income you have earned from recycling cans and bottles. Can't let those scoff laws get the best of us! I no longer recycle my own bottles because it took so long to get an amount that was worth wasting the gas to drive it somewhere, that my landlord was getting annoyed. I also managed to pay off my car, so I no longer needed that extra bit of spending money at the end of each month (public university assistant prof, what can I say). Over Christmas 2008, I decided that I would gift my bottles to the roving community that moved through the alley ways.
I had no idea that my neighbor was among them.
It is likely that this was perhaps her first go at it. Typically, people who pull recycling out of the blue bins are quasi professional: they have shopping carts, large durable plastic bags, even tongs or extended arm grabbers. Lately, they have been in Broncos, vans, and clanky old Toyota trucks. She had none of that, in fact, she was in the black cans, pulling out plastic bags, likely to get into the blue bin. She picked a good day; usually the pros wait until right before trash day or in the middle of the week to come through. I was going to bring out the recycling after the trash, but I could not bring myself to go back out.
There is a bit of a tradition in Venice combing through things set out in the alley. Our spaces tend to be a bit smaller (unless a recent McMansion), so people just set out the old item in the alley, knowing that someone will come by and get it, for free. Yes, we have to pay to have our large trash hauled, so it is a great ecosystem we've got going. However, actually getting into the actual can is not all that neighborly. Everything has its etiquette I suppose. To see her in our trash set off alarms upon alarms. I thought that maybe she did not know that she should look in the blue bin and not the black bin. Then I thought, maybe she is hungry, with four kids in the complex we likely throw out a good bit of edible food because we don't want to deal with the drama of getting it eaten a second day. I wondered if she was perhaps being malicious, simply tearing open the trash bags to encourage maggots and other pests (she kinda doesn't enjoy the large number of children running around the neighborhood). Finally, I settled on: I don't want to know.
I have been slowly reading an article in this month's Whole Life Times called
"Life after Oil." Written by Rachel Dowd, the article describes a new movement called Transition Town, that is an effort to get ready for the end oil availability as we know it. Shifting from a culture of consumption to a culture of permanence is the ultimate goal. What makes this particular eco-flash-in-the-pan relentlessly possible (and perhaps entirely impossible), is the fact that it treats our reliance on oil-based economy as an addiction. It is a fascinating concept. As someone who is thoroughly into reducing her carbon footprint, cheers for local currency, delights in community gardens, I think this is a very good idea. But dang it, we are at the end of something else first. In the moment when all my research and enlightened magazine reading should have served me, I kinda acted like a co-dependent at best, or another junkie at worst. "Why is she in our trash? I don't want to know I don't want to know I don't want to know."
But honestly, I did want to know. I want to know if I should be taking her a casserole once or twice a week. I want to know if I could convince her to change her ornamental yard into an edible one. I want to know if we should have a fundraiser for her to keep her house or help repair it so she can move to an assisted living facility. Things are in transition here, but we are all secretly hoping that those who scrabble through the alley, looking for anyway to earn a living will remain the same folks, or dwindle in number. This morning, I was very quietly alerted that the transition has begun: the numbers are increasing, silently, and in terrifying ways.
Planning for the end of oil is a great idea. The communities that will be created will be more balanced, part of the larger eco-sysetm in each microclimate where these towns will exist. They will be full of art and collaboration will be the norm. But if we don't hurry up and acknowledge that we are already transitioning out of money itself, it will be impossible to come together to do anything other than scrabble over the cans of the few who still have the luxury of having trash.
