North of Montgomery

In the process of moving over the last few months, I’ve made numerous trips to what I call “the dump.” Growing up in rural Alabama, I distinctly remember Saturday morning trips to the dump with my Dad. The dump was a landfill, dug out of the red clay of Elmore County where we’d back up our pickup truck to the edge and toss everything into the abyss. And I mean everything. I can see the bulldozers to this day, the bright Caterpillar yellow against the bright crimson of the earth, filing up one hole before digging another. Once the truck bed was empty, we’d hop back into the front bench seat of the truck with no seat belts, tune the radio to college football or country music, and stop at the Boys’ Store for a Coke and a pack of crackers.

Given the socio-economics of the community I now live in, our “dumps” are called “Convenience Centers.” At these convenience centers, there is a Goodwill drop-off, a trash compactor, large dumpsters for metal, construction debris, and limbs and leaves, and recycle bins. On most of my trips, I drop something off at Goodwill, deposit a few things in the trash compactor, and then head up the hill to the large dumpsters for the big stuff. The first dumpster at the top of the hill is for metal, and this is where the dump gets to me every time.

Mixed in with the old charcoal grills, water heaters, and that wire shelving that’s in every closet in America are a smattering of other items. Bicycles. Scooters. Basketball goals. It’s always the bikes that get me. All reminders of childhood and family. Was it a birthday gift? Maybe it was under the tree on a Christmas morning with a big bow on it. The first game of HORSE in the driveway. The day the training wheels came off. Core memories now part of the past and discarded in a dumpster.

In this season of life, I’m feeling much the same about the sale of my home of the last 15 years. The home where my kids rode their bikes, scootered in the garage, and played basketball in the driveway. And where I hoped they’d bring their families one day. After confiding how I was feeling with my best friends in our group text, one of them shared the following: “It’s true that places and things are all a part of dreams and memories, but at the heart of all those memories are people.” A great reminder at exactly the time it was needed. Whether our homes get sold or our bikes end up at the dump, it was the connection and the time spent with the people that mattered the most.