For the last few weeks our airwaves have been filled with cheery little commercials warning us that the garbage rules in Seattle were about to change.  Again. And this year’s picture book explaining the current state of garbology in Bellevue will probably arrive sometime soon as well.

Growing up in a family of nine in Bisbee, Arizona, we had a relatively small garbage can which was picked up once a week. My younger brother’s dalmatian, Specks, took a very dim view of those guys plucking what the dog regarded as “our stuff” out of the far corner of the front yard.  Specks was always there when the garbage truck was, voicing his strenuous objections. The can itself was usually not full all the way to the top because my mother ruled our garbage program with an iron fist. There was regular garbage—cans, bottles, and yes, some foodstuffs as well.  Then there was trash—newspapers, cardboard stuff—paper towel and toilet paper tubes—and milk cartons, and newspapers. That went into the burning barrel. (No plastic allowed in that, thank you very much!)

The burning barrel was a rusty fifty-gallon drum with rows of holes drilled into the sides about two thirds of the way from the bottom. The trash went into that along with a lit match. Taking out the garbage was a chore, but getting to set fire to something with our mother’s explicit approval was always a bit of a high point—for me at least. I can’t speak for any of my siblings.

As I said, this was long before the EPA and air quality control standards and burning bans. When the layer of ash in the burning barrel got to be too high, it   was emptied into the desert wilderness across the street—an area we called “up across the road.” From my point of view, I guess those would qualify as “the good old days” in terms of dealing with day-to-day garbage.

But let’s go back to that cheery commercial. According to the newly ordained rules, all food waste—including dead pizza boxes—must go in the yard waste containers. When I lived in Seattle, I was mostly in downtown high rises. I don’t remember seeing any yard waste dumpsters in the Denny Regrade.  And I don’t remember seeing more than one garbage chute inside the various buildings, either, so I’m a little puzzled about how Beau and Mel are supposed to get rid of whatever needs to be gotten rid of on a daily basis.

Wait a minute. Didn’t I just hear something about Seattle having a booming rodent problem–as in RATS?  Maybe someone should put the Pied Piper on speed-dial. If they don’t have a rat problem now, they will have—soon. And if the same rules are applied here in Bellevue, guess what?  So will we. Only ours will be more complicated.

We live just to the south of a 500 acre forested public park called Bridle Trails. We have a family of raccoons who parade around in broad daylight. We’ve seen a bobcat on our fence. And last year, a visiting black bear left some very visible claw marks on our plastic dumpster.  I’m sure we have rats, too, only they aren’t particularly sociable and don’t really like showing their toothy little selves during daylight hours.

We have a septic system which precludes our using the garbage disposal. If we put garbage in a yard waste container that is picked up once a month, you don’t need a crystal ball to see that it will soon turn into a real bonanza for the local wildlife population.

I grew up in the desert. If someone had told my mother that she had to soak the label off an empty Miracle Whip jar before she put it in the garbage, she would have had a fit.  “Do you know how much water that takes?” Amen, sister.  And I can tell you I feel the same way about wine bottles. The time, hot water, and energy it takes to soak off labels is worth far more than the value of that ever-so-clean recycled bottle.

A few months ago, someone sent me an internet video about a guy in Japan who has figured out a way to burn plastic and turn it back into—guess what?—oil. As in oil you can use to run your car. What a terrific idea!

During the recession, when there was very little building going on in the private sector, I watched as an immense garbage processing facility sprang up along the freeway south of Tukwila. I’m guessing they didn’t invest in anything as practical as equipment capable of extracting oil from plastic. Instead, once or twice a year someone sends us a preachy PAPER picture book, written in more than one language, explaining in terms of garbage, exactly what is supposed to go where and when. I wonder how much it costs to do those yearly mailings? I wonder how much of the paper ends up in recycling bins? How many poor trees have to die for them to send out that shiny all-color mailer?

That’s the difference between now and the good old days. Now we’re ruled by countless rules and regs with very little common sense added into the mix.

As Charlie Brown would say, “Good grief!”