Dump Day

The East Bay Township Dump: Don't dump without a permit...but browse all you want.

By Mardi Link

In East Bay Township, Saturday is dump day. I look forward to it all week - I am newly single and this is what my social life has come to. Equally shocking, I don't really mind. The dump is open from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, but make no mistake, Saturday is the day to go if you want to see and be seen.

The people who have the time to come here during the week are retirees, summer people up checking on their cottages, and stay-at-home parents; you can tell by their trash. A broken chaise lounge. A faded Little Tikes sandbox. Months of The Wall Street Journal bundled for recycling. They are friendly, but they just aren't the people I come to see. Most of us are raised not to judge anyone by the clubs they belong to, the God they worship, or the brand names emblazoned on their clothes, but I wonder, is it wrong to judge people by their trash? Probably, but I can't help it.

Visit the dump hut to chat with the dump guys and you may even get some old-fashioned coffee.

Interesting people have interesting trash, it's as simple as that. I know this not because of some scientific study or sociology experiment, but simply because I watch people, and not all trash fits in bags. The bent tetherball poles, stained oriental rugs, gold plaid La-Z-Boys, and truckloads of paneling do not fit in trash bags. Neither do the worn out marriages, teen pregnancies, dead dogs, or drunken neighbors. All of which I have seen at the dump on a Saturday afternoon. If you look closely enough though, you will also see what people decide to keep. A frayed dog collar, a used community college textbook, or maybe even hope.

The dump guys may be able to tell you some surprising stories about interesting people and their trash.

And yet, here I am. If you have never been to your township dump, this is how it works, at mine: You turn into the driveway off Rasho Road, and continue past the sign that reads, "East Bay Township residents only. Others pay double." I like that. Makes me feel like I belong. On your left is the recycling station; up ahead are the compactors. There are two, and the dump guys alternate between them. The new dump guy just retired from UPS; the dump guy in charge rides his full-dress Harley-Davidson or his snowmobile on his days off. Be nice to them and they might invite you into their hut for coffee. It's burnt and thick and the powdered creamer is caked solid at the bottom of the container, but it still tastes better to me than anything from the fancy new coffee shop.

But don't forget, one of the reasons you came here was to get rid of your garbage. You can toss your bags into the gaping hole yourself or they'll give you a hand, no questions asked. Every hour or so, depending on the activity level, the head dump guy will switch on the compactor and the 15-foot rusty iron fist will press your trash into the everlasting Northern Michigan underworld. Then they'll open up again for the next twenty residents.

On this particular fall day I hit it just right. People milling around, but no long line. There's my son's fourth grade friend from school. His parents are throwing away boxes filled with flowered wallpaper, some of it still in unopened rolls, and some that looks like it was just stripped off a wall. It's pretty, and holding up well against the November sleet. The friend's little sister is wearing a Batman costume. Not Batgirl or Catwoman, Batman. I bet she's nice and dry under that black plastic mask. Her cape splays out behind her as she leaps off a pile of tires.

Next to them is a stylish widow I used to wait on when I worked at the local bar. I watch her toss a trunk full of wine-in-a box empties into the recycling bin. She is trying to maneuver the wine boxes without setting down her purse. Gallo in one wrinkled claw and Fendi in the other. Right above her head is a giant hand lettered sign taped to the bin that reads, "No Waxed Cardboard!"

Pulling up behind her is my neighbor. He and I have had a Hatfield and McCoy relationship ever since he complained about my horses and chickens on WTCM's call-in radio show. Our tools of warfare consist of strategic landscape plantings and oppositional political signs, but there is amnesty at the dump. He is driving one of the pickups he owns that are in various stages of decay. This one is burnt orange with a lime green tailgate and a bumper sticker that reads, "You - Off My Planet." I wave; he nods and lifts two tight fingers off his steering wheel.

I started going to the dump a year ago. When my ex-husband moved out, he left behind the dregs of a twenty-year marriage and a garage-full of trash. Some of it was interesting trash, if I do say so myself. Letters with smeared ink. A well-used address book. Some wedding pictures. A scrapbook from a Mexican vacation. I didn't even know where the dump was, but when I called an area waste hauler, he quoted me a price of $250 to make it all disappear. This after I burned what I could in my burn barrel and composted what I could in my garden. I complained about the cost to a friend. "Just take it to the dump," she said.

All the trash goes to the same place as everyone else's, down the hole.

According to the Mackinac Center for Public Policy, Michigan is in the beginning stages of a garbage crisis. The average household throws out 1,300 pounds of trash a year, eighty percent of which is dumped into locally-run dumps like the one my neighbors and I use. Space, we keep hearing, is finite. Alternatives, such as burning, composting, or private pick-up, are either unsafe, unsightly, or expensive.

For now, I decided to follow my friend's advice. I went to the East Bay Township Hall on Three Mile Road, got a free dump sticker from the clerk, and pressed it onto the windshield of my old truck. I drove the six miles, introduced myself to the dump guys, and threw every single bag into the hole myself. Just $4 each for the extra large bags - grand total, $36. It's a cold, cold day when you realize that your trash, even the interesting stuff, goes to the same place as everyone else's. My ex-husband learned this a long time ago; he was always the one who made the weekly trip to the dump. I do that myself now. It gets me out.

Mardi Link is a writer and editor. She lives in East Bay Township on a small farm with her three sons, Owen, Luke, and Will.