Breakfast

It is a large family; they are poor, they are suffering. 

       Hungry; cold; barely the means to stay alive. The parents worry. The heat has been turned off, the power will be next. Every one of their blankets is in use. Extra socks, on hands and feet. Stocking caps, scarves, and huddling. Close together they keep from shivering. Tired, sick, somber.

       Sleep will not come easily this night, or the next. Mother hasn't eaten in three days, but stirs a pot of water and cabbage. Children come first. Father works away the night in a mine. He might come home tomorrow. Everyone hopes he will bring a paycheck. Men have been working for free these last weeks, spurred on by the promise of better times and back pay with interest.

       Father can do nothing more for his family than he is doing now. Secretly he hopes for a cave-in. Rubble, pain, release.

       Darkness and rising wind.

       Mother leads the children in prayer. Gratitude for life, amen. Eat your soup, drink the broth. No, there are no seconds.

       The children, together, in one bed. Fading, dozing, dreaming. Mother sits in her chair. There will be no breakfast if she doesn't go out. When all of the children have finally fallen asleep, she wraps herself in her nicest shawl, colors her lips a bright red, locks the front door behind her. 

        She reaches the mining camp; they all know her. After the first three transactions, she doesn't bother to straighten her dress or fix her hair again.

        Father comes home in the morning as the children wake. Still no paycheck. Mother comes home shortly after. No words; a banquet breakfast.  

        

Crisco and Cussing

            So this one is the first draft of a piece I really enjoyed writing, but that was also personal, and ended up being quite difficult at times. 

There are swears, in English and Spanish. Just so you know.

This is of course based on my real-life experiences, but I have taken creative license with a couple of details, while staying true to the spirit of these experiences.

Thank you for taking the time to read my ramblings.

            I was at least eighteen years old before I realized that my dad had an accent, and a thick one at that. A friend here or there might have mentioned that they couldn’t understand what my dad was saying, but I must not have heard them, or else I disregarded their comments.

            I liked to tell my dad stories, about my life, about the world. In fact, he often called me his “little story teller.” I now think he might have been implying that I was a liar, which is mostly a true statement. He would look interested, his eyes focused on me, occasionally nodding or muttering “Mmm-hmm.” I took that to mean that we were on the same page and that he enjoyed my regaling him with my mildly exaggerated adventures.

            He did actually enjoy my stories, or at least the time I took to tell them. He did not, however, understand everything I told him. Of course, I had no idea that this was the case. My brother Jared, who has always been my dad’s shadow and my best friend, finally enlightened me one day over donuts and chocolate milk. These were the good donuts—from the Macey’s bakery, and Cream of Weber chocolate milk, suitable for a revolutionary conversation. Jared asked me if I ever noticed the nodding and mumbling while I told Dad what was new in my life or what I was excited about. I told him I did, but never thought anything of it.

            “Lola (my nickname), he doesn’t understand a lot of the words you use. He doesn’t want you to know because you might think he’s stupid.”

            “Serious? I didn’t know. I guess I do use a lot of big words, but he’s never said anything. Hmm… I’ll pay more attention and maybe pick different words.”

            “Okay, but don’t make it obvious.” Jared got down to serious donut-eating then. He is my physical opposite and has been since I was twelve, him thirteen. For six glorious months I was taller than him. I haven’t grown since then, but Jared sprouted. He towers over most of my family, he’s mocha dark and slim no matter what he eats. Downing half a dozen eclairs or bear paws was nothing to him. I would eat half a bizmark and have to run three miles. Our family is a kaleidoscope of DNA splendor. Tall and short, brown and white, shy and boisterous. We make a fun mix, but when there are eight children, you’re almost guaranteed to have a diverse amalgam, which suited us fine.

            Dad never taught us Spanish. I found out later that he didn’t want us to think he couldn’t speak English, our native tongue. It was a point of pride and a convenient guarantee that he and Mom could speak their secrets openly, knowing we hadn’t any idea what they were saying. The only other time we’d hear my dad speaking “the Celestial language” (his words), was when he was swearing. Sure, he’d use hell, god, and damn in English, but when things got serious, only Spanish had the words to correctly express his ire. We didn’t need to know what he was saying.

            Jared and my younger brothers built a fire in the backyard once, along with some neighbor boys. Our oldest brother, Jeremiah—one of the whitest of my parents’ brood, sat at our kitchen table discussing something forgettable with Mom and Dad. I joined them with a glass of juice. I was just getting into their back and forth, when yet another brother, Jaime, came in through the back door and slunk past us with a stick. Six years old with dark skin and a head of tight brown curls, wearing cut-off jean shorts and no shirt, Jaime-bear (Dad gave out most of our nicknames) was the picture of northern California comfort—except for the stick that he was using to scoop Crisco straight from the can. Without replacing the lid, he turned around and walked through the open back door, not even attempting to conceal the stick.

            Jeremiah and I were immediately charged with reconnaissance. I should mention that we have the same face, just feminine and masculine versions of it. I got the Rodriguez beauty mark—worn by our grandmother and aunt before me, and Jeremiah got a bunch of moles. It’s all semantics, really. We have similar personalities, which has led to seasons of great and meaningful camaraderie, interspersed with years of conflict and stormy silence. On this occasion, we were a team, and took our assignment seriously, employing G.I. Joe- stealth. Squished against each other behind the big yellow shed that Dad built, we peeked around the corner just as a blazing fire exploded into the summer sky at the back end of the lawn, flames licking at the high branches of our cherry tree, heat radiating across the yard toward us. Pure Crisco makes an excellent fuel for rogue boyhood fires. Jared sat in a very low metal lawn chair, those old kind with the woven plastic in yellow, brown, orange. He poked at the base of the incendiary tower with a long stick, looking like a king on a low, fold-up throne. Around him, the younger boys either sat watching in amazement, or brought armfuls of sticks, bark, and branches for his inspection. It was probably one half of one second that Jeremiah and I stood in shock, frozen.

            “You’re BUSTED!” Just those two words and my brother pushed past me, leaping like Jack over the candle stick, toward the back door.

            In less than a minute, Dad was running, long green water hose in hand. He would later have both of his knees replaced with titanium, so this memory of him running—fast—has become nearly as remarkable in memory as the fire that I’m now pretty sure didn’t actually touch the clouds.

            The boys, barefoot and dressed only in shorts or loin cloth—the fire turned out to be part of a very imaginative reenactment of a Native American initiation rite—ran in all directions. Some made it to the fence at the side of the house, escaping to their homes. Others ran down the hill at the end of our lawn, scaling low fences and hiding behind the brambles that would later hide Jared’s marijuana enterprise.

            Dad put the fire out, but not before sirens were heard in the distance. Dropping the hose, he used whatever energy he had left to chase down any boy he could get hold of and give him a sound Mexican thrashing with his leather belt. I stayed mostly by the yellow shed throughout the event, watching and listening intently. That was the first time I knew for sure that Dad was swearing, and they were the big ones, the naughty words that you say with friends while hiding in your bedroom closet. Hell was unleashed in glorious, Celestial profanity that day, and never was entirely surpassed for drama, flames, or violence. The boys: Jared, Jaime, and little Jose, went to a fire safety class and had a lengthy discussion with a couple of police officers. I found out later that my parents got to have their own discussion with the local child protective services. Really, when I look back at what we all did to entertain ourselves growing up, the miracle is that all eight of us realized adulthood. We’d hear the sirens a couple more times in the next few years. Little Jose had discovered his love of the flame, and no amount of spankings or visits with the firemen would change that.

            Jaime, the Crisco boy, shared a series of memories with me the other day. He’s tall and brown, with still curly masses of course dark hair. A combat veteran and father of two girls, he loves his family, God, his guns, and swearing. It almost never matters with whom he shares company, the vulgarity ensues, just assuming different levels to suit the crowd. So, he reminds me of how our parents always used to employ the “Do you ever hear me say words like that” qualifier. As each of us kids began learning Spanish in school, that question had to evolve: “Do you ever hear me talk to Mommy like that?!” Pretty much, we have concluded that swearing is just another part of our kaleidoscope DNA, with Dad having always gone for the glory, and Mom busting out her more restrained flavor of big guns, CRAP and DAMN, only at the most necessary, passionate moments.  

            Visiting with a couple of my dad’s brothers during his funeral, I realized a strange phenomenon that somehow, I had always overlooked. Having lived stateside for decades, these two particular uncles speak fluent though not grammatically perfect English, both with a master’s level proficiency in American profanity. It seems that when they were learning to speak their second tongue, among other migrant workers, they didn’t learn to distinguish between cussing and the more company-friendly American lexicon. Honestly, I don’t know if they even know that they’re swearing. They must by now though, it’s just too late to do anything about it. And anyway, they’re Catholic. A good Mexican Catholic can speak of the virgin, the weather, and his pendejo son in law in curse words alone, occasionally throwing in a necessary adverb.

            Dad died a Mormon, but tradition and DNA aren’t washed away in the standard shallow baptismal font. Mom spanked us for repeating things we’d learned at school: butthead, buttface, butt-cheese. Meanwhile, Dad ranted about the mendigo cabron at work who didn’t know how to use a power drill right. I grew up increasingly confused, eventually realizing that situation, nuance, and level of authority determined one’s permission to swear. Oh, and the one who wielded the belt or sandal definitely had free reign with vulgarity. Mom still tries to monitor our swears, to mostly no effect, if she’s lucky. We may have become one of those cliché statistics that result from prohibiting something. Adulthood = freedom to be vulgar! If it’s one of those days though, or she has recently upset someone, she will be rewarded instead with gratuitous escalation. Can’t fight DNA. It turns out that some of it came from her side. She didn’t have the same accent as Dad, so I didn’t notice it in the early years, but she frequently appropriated Dad’s Celestial expletives. I don’t really blame her; raising eight kids in a 900 square foot house is no joke. And besides that, her mom grew up on a farm. The woman dropped expletive colloquialisms of her own, passing down the tendency through the blood line.

I only have three children and twice the living space as my childhood home in California. Still, you’ll often hear my kids say things like, “Sometimes Mommy says naughty things when she’s scared or mad.” “She’s still learning to be a mom.” “Mommy is working hard to not say swear words.” They don’t know the half of it. Incidentally, I refuse to give them any kind of vocabulary double standard—in any language. Instead, I tell them that using some words will hurt other people’s feelings, or scare them, or might not represent your character as effectively as other options. It isn’t a matter of good versus bad, or stupid versus intelligent with my child-rearing endeavor. Some words are just best used judiciously and in certain moments—like when you narrowly avoid running over an elk carcass at 75 mph in a dark, narrow canyon. Sometimes, no other word but shit, will suffice. That doesn’t even require DNA, just honesty, adrenaline, and the occasional brush with death.

            Dad battled prostate cancer for two years, which saw me sitting with him for hours at a time, telling him more stories. By this time, not only did he not always understand some of my more eloquent word choices, but he was also legally deaf. I spoke loudly and slowly, trying to always look him in the eye. Expression and tone communicate most of our conversations, and anyway, most of what I said was nonsense. Sometimes our interaction was nothing more than holding hands, but there might not be enough words in my vocabulary to adequately convey all the meaningful dialogue that was transmitted through that touch. 

            Our whole family gathered in the emergency room a few weeks later—there are a lot of us—so that our kids could say goodbye to Grandpa Rodriguez. During this, the twilight of his life, he was only able to understand Spanish. Forty years of speaking English, or at least his portion of it, seemed to have been erased by a stroke two weeks before. Luckily, most of us kids developed at least functional levels of fluency, acquired through school, employment, and Mormon mission service.

Our kaleidoscope family was shoulder to shoulder in that small hospital room, ignoring the visitor limit posted on the wall. My family looks just scary enough (Is it the darkness or the bulk?) that when one of the nurses began to politely but sternly remind us of the policy, it took only a moment’s collective glare to quickly silence her. I stood next to my only sister, ten years younger than me and at least four inches taller. She got the dark skin and curly black hair, and the notorious Rodriguez resting bitch face. The nurse literally backed away from her. Language comes in many forms and certain elements of vocabulary are understood universally. My sister, Raquel, though far more ethnic in appearance than me, speaks no Spanish. More than a few comic situations have resulted from our differences, indeed, from the differences, and similarities, between all eight of us kids. But that day, I didn’t feel my usual jealousy over my sister’s height and natural curls. Our dad understood me, clearly this time, and so I told a few more stories and lies, not always sure he was conscious.

            The next morning, with his last words, he spoke English again. He told me he loved me, and never spoke again, in any language.

 If there is a heaven, and if he got there, I hope they’ll make sure he’s aware of which words are appropriate in the Celestial sphere. And then I hope he’ll tell them he’d prefer the chamucas malditas in hell.

I’ll join you there, Dad, with  a cold drink and a warm tortilla.

            

Dumpster Diving

This is essentially an outline for the book I hope to write.

I guess I figured out this reclamation business on accident, I hadn’t meant to become a dumpster diver but perhaps it was my fate. I don’t actually believe in fate, so instead, let’s say that some people are either cut out for or conditioned for certain things in life. My dad called me Nachita, the feminine version of my grandfather’s nickname. Dad said the man was always finding new ways to make money, one creative, crazy venture after another. He sold galletas and cacahuates, with my dad and his younger brother usually enlisted in the enterprise. Walking up and down narrow cobblestone roads in what Dad always called Old Mexico, the young boys would holler as they went, advertising their wares. Dad always had a funny, kind of obnoxious sneer when he rehearsed his old lines. Galletas! Cacahuates! Dulces! Chicle!

Though he hadn’t appreciated his dad’s schemes as a child, being constantly conscripted into service and not allowed many opportunities for free play time, he told me many times how much he had learned and how he grew to appreciate his dad’s efforts. I took this as reassurance and encouragement. More than once, my son--young, skinny, and wiry like a monkey—was hoisted into bins with small openings, able to get to things that I couldn’t.

Dad laughed so much that his belly shook when I told him about Reagan, my son, handing discarded treasures out to me from inside the dimly lit dumpsters. Laughter was almost always Dad’s reaction to my scavenging stories, but the look in his eye, that sparkle, told me how proud he was of my ingenuity. He often said, “Whatever you’ve got to do.” I hope he really meant that.

So, following in the footsteps of my revered ancestor, I was looking for ways to earn some extra money while still keeping the agreement I had made with my husband. Upon starting a family, I had agreed, under coercion, to be a stay-at-home mom. This was after having consistently earned a paycheck since the age of twelve. It was much harder than I anticipated. I had many things I wanted to do and our single income didn’t allow for all that we wanted for our family. I began clipping coupons, then realized that I was paying a lot of money to get the coupons. It so happened that while dropping off stacks of the resulting newspapers at a local recycling bin, I noticed a brand new, intact coupon insert sitting on top of the piles of paper detritus. It was a revelation.

After searching several recycling bins in the area, I found a coupon-clipper’s Shangri la: bundles of undelivered newspapers, all containing coupon inserts. I grabbed every one and loaded them into my van for later dissection. Soon I was a coupon-queen, bringing home piles of free merchandise from the grocery store every week. Our household budget seemed to stretch and before long we were putting a few dollars into savings each month. I was proud of my accomplishment, but like a true junkie, it just wasn’t enough. I knew I could do better, save more, make a bigger difference. It became something of an obsession, similar to my earlier years of running. I had found a new high and would spend the next few years chasing its memory.

It came naturally, that first glance into a dumpster. It was sitting next to one of my regular recycling bins, where I found coupons, books, maps, vintage greeting cards, paper gift bags, and plenty of shipping material. A small business was beginning to sprout, and this new discovery propelled me quickly to a full-fledged, profitable enterprise. Something was protruding from the neighboring bin and curiosity overcame revulsion. Inside the bin was a bicycle, and a box of yard sale leftovers. That day, my life as a money-making, earth-saving dumpster diver, began in earnest!

Some say dumpster diver or scavenger, but another term I learned as I got deeper into the practice, was picker. I loved the title immediately. It signified for me a position of having choices and options. I have the benefit or privilege of picking and choosing which bins I will hit, which items I will take, and what I will ultimately do with them. Over time, a picker learns what is worth her time. The distinction, in my case, is that I have a dual mission. I don’t just want the things that will sell or be useful in my home. I also want to fight the tide of waste that seems to be increasing daily. I know I can’t make a huge difference on my own, but still I choose to pick not just the good stuff, but also the many things that can still be used by someone, somewhere. 

Like I said, schools and parks were gold mines. Whether from the school decluttering and teachers retiring, or from local residents discarding the unsold remains of a Saturday yard sale, these often-overlooked bins are really massive treasure chests hiding untold wealth and wonder. Like any good treasure hunter, one should don appropriate gear when venturing into their depths. Gloves, long sleeves and pants, sometimes a face mask, and always close-toed, supportive shoes; all of these make for a safer, more productive expedition. I also like to bring a step ladder, though more agile adventurers are wont to simply vault over the side. I also recommend long handled, sturdy tools with hooks or grabbing mechanisms for items that are beyond reach. This is especially useful when your particular bin is filled not only with treasure, but also varieties of spoilage and waste from which even the longest pants and most solid of shoes will not protect you.

I began making scheduled rounds of my favorite bins, including an old, lidless yellow bin in the parking lot of a shady park. Not one to draw attention to myself while picking, I learned which specific weekday or weekend hours should be set aside for which bins and have mostly stayed consistent ever since. In the yellow bin I have mostly found apartment clean-outs; pieces of furniture—a hope chest or desk—hanging over the edge of the bin. The overflow usually signals potential. One of my best finds in that bin, a pair of children’s cowboy boots in nearly perfect condition, sold online for $30.00 plus shipping. It wasn’t always about earning money though, sometimes the goal was to save money by spending less. In the same bin, I found bed sheets for my children, blankets for winter, a My Little Pony puzzle and assorted coloring books that cost me nothing but time. My kids never knew the difference, and our debt balance continued to fall, even as our savings account blossomed.

On occasion, though, these frequent apartment evictions coincide with Luaus, fish fries, and barbecues. The park is popular in the summer, owing to our glaring sun and the protective shade of hundred-year-old trees. All of my planning with days, times, and protective gear, does not immunize me from the effects of an occasional vomit-inducing hoard. A large bag of fish heads, still attached to transparent lengths of bones, sat next to a bag, stuffed--and securely tied—with several brand new, complete outfits from no less than Bloomingdales. Original sales tags were still attached. I kept a pair of light, comfortable, striped pajamas for myself; the rest I sold online for a tidy sum. I have been lucky in that many of the nastiest bins have also turned out to be the most financially rewarding picks.

Just as storied troves are often buried in deep, forgotten, or overlooked places, down perilous paths requiring dangerous journeys, these modern-day hoards also carry an inherent level of risk and danger. But with perseverance, an intrepid diver will be rewarded beyond her wildest imaginings. Had I been turned off by the offending odor of a weekend’s worth of filleted fish bones and spilled beer, my family wouldn’t have been able to afford a trip to the Pacific coast that we enjoyed later that summer. It comes down to deciding what you want and what you are willing to do to get it.

Finding gold—real gold—was one of my most exciting discoveries, but also terribly sad. Thick flakes of real, shiny, timeless gold were taped on the last page of a small red booklet, used as samples for amateurs panning for gold in a touristy area of northern California. This was a memory, perhaps the only evidence left of a mid-century family vacation, and soon I realized that the greatest monetary treasures I would uncover, were often the result of hurried families, following the death of an aged loved one. 

I despaired, realizing that in their drive to clean out Grandma’s little brick house as quickly as possible, preparing it for resale or for grandkids to move in, these descendants would just pile everything into boxes and bags, unceremoniously dumping fine jewelry, hand-embroidered baby clothes, antique family photos and letters, mementos, relics of a lifetime, into the bin around the corner from my house. Up until this moment, even with my environmental concerns floating in the background of my mind and affecting my choices, digging in bins had been most importantly about my family’s bank book. Holding in my hands what amounted to an entire human life, or at least a big part of one, shook me shifted changed my perception. Every carefully crafted piece, every memory, be they photos, diaries, bank documents, ticket stubs, military discharge documents, all of them were in that bin, then my house, then sold to the highest bidder. I had a mission to accomplish, I wanted to be out of debt, but I also felt the undeniability of mortality weighing on me as I sifted through people’s lives, took pictures, and wrote detailed descriptions for each item on my favorite auction website.

************************

I wonder if I am any better than the families who carelessly throw out their relative’s lives in the days after putting their bodies in the ground. I do my best to appreciate what I find and treat the items well. I don’t always succeed; I live a busy, full life, and make mistakes. I still feel like crying, years after realizing that some beautiful needle-point work had ended up ruined with mildew because I hadn’t stored it properly one winter. I comfort myself with the fact that I am making efforts that other people aren’t, and most wouldn’t. This line of thinking serves as small comfort as I hear my phone chiming, Cha-ching! Another online sale!

After several years of mining in the bins, just as with any profession, one becomes desensitized to upsetting finds. Barring my recurring nightmare of finding a dead body, not much bothers me anymore. It’s not that I have lost my compassion or that I no longer realize what the over-flowing boxes I find mean. I guess I am just at a point where I’ve seen enough death and devastation in my own life, have accepted my mortality, and chosen to focus now on living. To live the way that I really want to, I have to earn money, and that requires emotional and sentimental distance. It is just another necessary tool in my dumpster-diving belt.

 I can now spot these lifetime loads on sight. Crocheted afghans, photo albums, tiny patent leather baby shoes, pieced quilts, love notes and anniversary cards; these are the clues, and their prevalence is likely telling of something profound, maybe along the lines of the downfall of society. I’m really not sure. Anymore, I just see in them potential monetary value. I have to make the disconnect; instead of imagining soft hands working long needles, or small babies swaddled in blankets passed down through generations, I see my children hugging Mickey Mouse, or taking piano lessons. 

Some things though, are hard to overlook, despite my cultivated lack of sentiment, and find their way into my contemplations. It seems that the bigger houses get, in the neighborhoods surrounding my humble bins, there must be room for at least one item from Grandma’s hand-stitched trousseau. Can no space be made for a single heirloom in the cavernous rooms, otherwise filled with electronics, over-stuffed furniture, and mountains of unused toys made in China.

To be fair, I’ve realized and accepted in recent months that we can’t keep everything and not everything is worth trying to keep and the stress that results from piles of special things stacked around us can lead to a decrease in our quality of life. But I also know the value of a dollar, an ounce of real gold, and the work that goes into 18-point tatted lace. My mom, in disgust, ranted about the hours that go into such masterpieces as I have found lying next to last week’s pizza boxes.

The children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, or estate managers that hurried through decades of artifacts, seemed to have barely looked at what they were discarding. If they had realized that they were throwing out vintage Italian silver jewelry, antique copper, designer clothing—still with tags—souvenirs from places that no longer existed, and a never-ending assortment of other money-making articles, would they have had second thoughts? Maybe. Maybe not. Moving—selling—these goods, it requires times and effort.

For someone like me, a busy mother of three, the discoveries in those steel bins were a life-changing avenue of income to supplement my husband’s salary. With my goals in mind, I have spent countless hours turning refuse into resale and doing my part to make the world a little better, all while my kids have sat buckled in our mini-van, watching movies and playing games for an hour at a time. The extra income and overall savings came to mean more and more in our family’s life. For a couple of difficult years, following the nationwide recession, my husband was regularly laid off from his job, for weeks at a time.

When his work situation became dire, with me still wanting to enroll my children in extracurricular activities, and see the world, I knew that it was time to stretch myself and go to the next level. Yard sales every other week, online classifieds, cleaning out foreclosed homes and apartment evictions, always keeping my eyes open for money-making possibilities, it began to add up.

What began with a quick peek over the edge of that first dumpster, has grown over the years into a source of consistent revenue for our family, resulting in many of the extras that we hoped for and the ability to pay off all of our debts, save our mortgage. Bags of collectible die-cast toy cars, vintage action figures, plush bears, and assorted Disneyana, have translated into an effective action plan for not only making ends meet during rough times, but also for realizing a few dreams.

The years of diving have brought with them plenty of learning opportunities and necessary adaptations. I learned as I went along, how to be safer, more efficient, and how to better keep the kids happy. They loved being rewarded with new books—discards from the school’s library that we regularly found in the recycling bin. We now have an extensive collection of quality, enjoyable reading material on our shelves. McDonald’s Happy Meal toys and unopened bags of water balloons, totes full of crayons and colored pencils, necklaces and trading cards, spools of ribbon and endless basketballs. My children’s toy bins and shelves filled quickly and there was always something to entertain them in the van while Mommy hunted.  I also learned to bring snacks, drinks, and to know where the closest bathroom facilities were at all times. The best part of our adventures has been and always will be, never knowing what we’ll find in our treasure bins.

We don’t keep every toy and some we don’t even play with; there have been some that were incredibly valuable and those we’ve sold or only played with gently, for a day or two, before listing them on online auctions. The kids and I have an understanding: if the toy isn’t worth anything to collectors, it will join our family, at least until we reach our predetermined capacity. Every few months there is a necessary cull, room made for new additions.

When they were old enough, and the bins were safe enough—usually recycling bins full of paper and cardboard—my kids were thrilled to get their first chances to dive in themselves. My boy Reagan was first, then convincing his older sister that it wasn’t bad at all, or scary. Young enough not to realize how strange our behavior was, how contrary to the consumerism that surrounds their daily American lives, they only thought about how cool it was when we found Transformer bed sheets and a Barbie dream house in the bins we searched. They also knew that whatever we earned from our scavenging efforts was going to fund vacations and adventures, complete with seals, dolphins, and a gigantic skeleton of whale bones.

Soon, walking home from school, the kids would make their own discoveries, in gutters or Monday-morning garbage day bins posted outside of neighbors’ homes; proudly bringing them home for me to see and give approval and encouragement. It has become a family business, with necessary changes and accommodations being made along the way, but with all of us invested. Even my husband, who initially adopted the typical response of disgust and embarrassment, began to see the value in our fringe trade. This miraculous change in perspective came to pass when I found a spectacular Makita power drill and charger in the bin behind Maple Hills High School. I meant to sell it, but James, my husband, grabbed it right away and has been using it happily for years. Any time he veers back toward the revulsion camp, I remind him of that drill and he overlooks my exploits for a time, not always fully realizing just how much of an impact this enterprise has had on our finances. I only push the fact when he begins to get in my way or complains about stacks of boxes in our shed every summer.

Together with my family and the occasional guest diver, we have rescued what are probably mountains of reusable goods from landfills. Though lifestyles like ours are becoming more popular and trendy in certain areas, particularly the granola-minded northwest coast and waste-conscious New York City, the majority of people involuntarily grimace or sneer when hearing that my kids’ beds were covered in sheets and blankets found in black garbage bags, next to broken T.V. stands and expired canned goods in a dumpster next to our city building. Bleach is an amazing tool.

I don’t need to dig through other people’s waste anymore. My husband has been promoted and provides well for our family’s needs. It is no longer a situation of almost-desperation, but rather of stewardship, example, and extra. I want to influence as many people as I can, in hopes that many individual small efforts might add up to dramatic results.

I should reiterate that I don’t believe in keeping every single memento or family heirloom. We live in clutter, being suffocated, robbed of freedom and time. Life should ideally be about moments, values, and memories that we pass on to our children. I’m still working out what the right amount of sentimental keepers is for myself and our family. What I am pretty sure of though, is that the items we do keep, will only be the ones we cherish, and the ones we discard, will find another life and not a place in a mountainous landfill. 

Your kids might not want to keep all of your stuff, and they shouldn’t, but they will inherit the world you leave behind.

Burying God

My husband, James, drove us home to take a nap, somewhere around midnight. I was worn out, physically and emotionally. Two days of watching my dad dying left me needing my bed but also feeling guilty for not staying in the hospital room with my mom and siblings. There are eight of us kids and we were all there. I came back after a few hours of deep sleep, the kind that you only get when your brain has been pushed to its limits. My youngest brother had called and asked if I was coming back. I will always will be grateful that he woke me up.

            I drove back alone. James stayed with our sleeping kids. It was still the wee hours of the morning. Plus, we were both pretty sure that Dad would be done with his battle in the next few hours and James didn’t want to intrude. He’s just like that, especially about these kinds of things. I arrived at the hospital and made my way up to Dad’s room. My family was spread out over chairs, the floor, and the empty extra bed in the room. Dad was propped up, my sister giving him swabs of the apple juice I had gotten for him before I left earlier. He loved apple juice. We had tried water on the swab but he wouldn’t take it. I dipped the little pink swab in apple juice and saw the first signs of life that we had seen in several hours as the sweetness hit his tongue.

            Half of the family was sleeping when I walked in, tired but recharged; the others were joking. That’s what we do, we laugh and tease and it was always one of Dad’s favorite things—sitting, listening to us all being noisy. We were a “forever family.” Dad had converted to my mother’s religion when I was three years old. We went to a large white building and a man said that death would have no power over our family bond. We were sealed together and God was with us. My parents believed it and taught me to believe it as well.

            When Dad got sick, we prayed, we fasted, we tried to cash in any chips we had earned. The doctor said Terminal. Maybe we didn’t do enough? Or we hadn’t been good enough? Or Dad hadn’t been good enough?

            In the sterile, tight hospital room, everyone welcomed me back, poking some good-natured fun at me for needing sleep. I knew that they wanted sleep too and there was no accusation in their teasing. I made my way past all of their slumped and stretched out forms to my Dad’s bedside. Leaning down, hugging him, telling him I loved him, surprised and grateful to hear him say, breathlessly, I love you.

            He didn’t speak again after that, and never would. He used to always say Remember your prayers, morning and night. I had obeyed, most of the time, but especially after he started bleeding, and even more when his hair fell out, and then desperately when the tests showed that the rogue cells were out of control and there was nothing more that could be done. He had a stroke and I spent hours on my knees, begging the God that I loved to help us.

            I held onto Dad for another moment, surrounded by people who shared my suffering. His eyes stayed half open for another hour or so, he would occasionally take the proffered moist swab, but mostly just lay there, moaning softly, his eyes closed tightly in the pain of death. Those eyes, they were yellow where they were supposed to be white, evidence that his organs were shutting down, poison being released throughout his body. One of my brothers played some of Dad’s favorite Mariachi music, close so he could hear it. We told more stories, did anything we could to make Dad more comfortable.

            He had spoken to me last, and I think it was a sign. Or maybe an assignment. A little later that morning, I looked over at Dad while my mom was dozing and my siblings were involved in some old tale of childhood that I had heard a million times. Dad was gasping, silently, his chest heaving, a pained rise and fall. He was telling us that it was time.

            He can’t breathe, guys.

            Um, yeah. He’s dying, Julie. He will struggle to breathe.

            No, guys! He’s dying NOW!

            My sister woke up our mom, she was immediately alert and grasped Dad’s hand, whispering permission, telling him it was okay, she was okay, it would all be okay.

Let go.

I held his other hand, warm, in mine. We all gathered in close, many hands holding onto whatever they could reach of his last moments of warmth, saying those last-minute things that you hope a dying person will hear and take with them into the abyss. One or two more pained, gasping movements, no sound of air.

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James came to be with me and several sisters in law also arrived. Some of my siblings left, needing to sleep, or cry alone, or just get away. My mom left with her parents. Soon they were all gone. After our large crowd, the room felt unbearably empty as James and I sat with Dad. His bed was laid down flat, breathing tube removed from his nose, and a blanket pulled up to his chin. I held his hand again, it grew cold incredibly fast. That fall in temperature shocked me more than almost anything that day. So immediate, final, dramatic.

An hour or two later, I guess I lost track of time, a smart young man in suit and tie showed up to collect my old Pops. James and I waited in the hall. I found the cold tile floor surprisingly comforting, numbing, and wondered how that skinny kid was going to maneuver Dad onto the stretcher he brought along.

Then the boy, really, barely a man yet, came out and invited us to have a moment before he took my Pops away. James didn’t come with me. Like I said, he’s like that. He just knows when he’s needed, and when to leave you alone.

I don’t know how long I stayed in there, but I do know that every single second of that time shaped the person I am now, two years later. My dad, his dark skin turning gray, his eyes closed, his body cold, draped in a beautiful quilted fabric in soothing tans, warm reds, light copper, that would soon cover him completely. I was grateful for that covering. It spoke of love to me, more than those velvet green ones you usually see. I said a few things to Dad, even though he was gone. I wonder if part of him heard my words.

The young man, looking like a little boy dressed in his daddy’s grown-up suit, reminded me of a Family Circus comic I had seen once, and I would have smiled if I wasn’t standing next to my dad’s lifeless body. The boy spoke softly to me when I came out to the hall.

May I have your permission, for your dad’s privacy, to cover his face before I bring him out? Would you like to see him one more time before I do?

I could have kissed that boy. Instead I thanked him. He knew, probably from experience or training, that covering a loved one’s face is an incredibly traumatic event for family members, superseded only by watching their coffin lowered into the ground and covered with dirt, heavy, suffocating. I felt my own chest tighten when he brought Dad out, covered. I had to fight to start breathing again. James held my hand, tight, a squeeze of support. He didn’t know what I was feeling. How could he? But we’ve been together a long time and sense each other’s rhythms and unspoken needs. I loved him in that moment, more than I probably ever had before.  

We walked behind the stretcher, a solemn little procession, until we got to the elevator. There we had to part. Burned into my mind was the sympathetic, but also annoying, look of the doctor as we left. He had pronounced my dad’s death, life over, ended, no more. He hadn’t done enough to ease the incomprehensible pain that I saw in the contortions of my old Pops’ face during those last hours. I hate him for it, with his shiny stethoscope hanging around his neck, typing up something, probably my dad’s chart. Another day, another death. Some things are unforgiveable. I want to flip him off as we walk out. Instead, I look away, trying to release the anger. It will only hurt me, not him.

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Twilight had come by the time I woke up again. I slept the sleep of the grieving and rose to order flowers and make phone calls, comfort my kids, try to explain to them why their prayers hadn’t been enough.

A Mariachi band in gleaming white costume with gold cording and brass buttons played traditional Mexican ballads as my six brothers carried Dad’s coffin on a stark but unseasonably warm February day. He went out in style, his only reward for a life of hard work and sacrifice, religious devotion, and obedience. Of course, he wasn’t there to enjoy it, the funeral, or even much of his life. He worked full time until the last two weeks of his life, prayed, went to church, checked all the necessary boxes on heaven’s requirement sheet. He stayed faithful, hopeful, but also characteristically defiant to the end. He wanted badly to live, so he was blessed with the true priesthood power. But it wasn’t God’s plan for him to survive, despite his life of service and his family’s desperate pleas.

 We buried him, everyone contributing with shovel in hand. I only managed one shovelful, the bile rising quickly in my throat. I handed the shovel to someone else. James kept moving dirt with my brothers, because he’s just good like that.

My dad’s brothers crossed themselves, my siblings bowed their heads, my eldest brother blessed the fresh grave, asking God to protect it.

February 2, 2015: I left God, appropriately, in that hole with my Pops.