Today is trash day in our part of town. Driving home last night I saw the trash barrels overflowing with the by-product of Christmas. (I don't recall any part of the Christmas story that had the three wise men riding off to the dump.) It's no doubt a very long week for the trash haulers.

When I was growing up, we didn't have community trash pickup. (My father still doesn't; the house too far from the center of town.) That which wasn't burned in a barrel in the back yard went to the dump. The dump was the center of activity on Saturday morning. Rocky, the guy who ran the town dump, got to keep what he wanted out of the trash. He wasn't wealthy, but his house was nicer than you'd expect. His daughter, though, wasn't treated well in school.

We had a Studebaker pickup truck when I was a kid. As you know, then, as now, if you have a truck, it's not yours alone. People want your help moving all kinds of stuff. Some friends of my parents were getting new furniture and asked my father to take their old sofa to the dump. As my father was driving to the dump, he glanced in the rear view mirror and thought that the couch looked pretty good. Our house was on the way to the dump, so he stopped at home. The couch stayed at our house for another 20 or so years. My mother had to throw a spread over it when their friends came for a visit so they wouldn't recognize their old couch.

Last night we took five grandkids to see The Polar Express in IMAX at a furniture store, of all places.. (We wish that Lily lived closer so she could have joined us.) The movie on the really big screen is wonderful.

Sandra stood in line with the kids while I went to get the sodas. When I returned, I said "Hi, Dave." to a former co-workier.
"You know that guy?" asked Sandra.
"We worked together at IBM."
"He just cut in line."
"Yep, that's him."