This morning I was telling a story in the comments of a friend's blog about growing up next to a garbage dump. It wasn't anything to me, but thinking about it now, I wonder whether others would be horrified. I mean, it's not like we played in the garbage or anything. Okay, maybe we did a little when the dump was closed and the heavy machinery was quiet for the day or the weekend. That place was a treasure-trove and filled with adventure.
Anyway, the story I told was of the night a small, local grocery store caught fire and they brought all the trash from the clean-up to our dump. Loads and loads of canned goods and jars and packages. A lot of it only had smoke-damage to the packaging and was still good otherwise. They could no longer sell it, of course, but it was still edible. So my brothers went out and hauled loads of groceries to the house. It was a wonder to me. I'd never seen so much food in the house. And best of all was the soda pop. We never had soda pop in the house. And there was nothing wrong with the food other than missing or damaged labels.
But you hear about a family eating food they found in the dump and that's probably horrifying to you. It was a wonderland to me and a happy childhood memory.
A lot of the clothes I wore came through the trash. Not out of the dump, mind you. My mom was the office manager for the garbage company and the drivers would find bags of clothes set out for pick-up, and bring them to her. She'd take what was still good home for her family. With five kids and a limited income, those clothes were probably a godsend.
I never thought about it. Clothes were clothes. Until one day in fourth grade, a girl came up to me and told me she used to have the exact same shirt as the one I was wearing. No doubt I was wearing her old shirt. I didn't tell her that, but it was in my head from then on. And from then on, I was less excited about wearing the clothes Mom brought home. When I was old enough to work, I worked and bought my own clothes.
Don't get me wrong. I had a happy childhood, for the most part. We were fed and clothed and housed. Nothing fancy. I didn't need fancy. I made do. The skills I learned back then have served me well. I don't need fancy to this day.and I still make do.
Do you have any childhood experiences that others might find horrifying but that was just life to you?
I find that fascinating--and lucky too. I still love finding things on the curb or along the road. We've picked up some great items over the years.
ReplyDeleteMy childhood memory is similar to yours except my father was a waiter at a 5 star restaurant in Chicago. We ate well and my tastes became quite sophisticated at a young age. I'd eat soft shell crabs and filet mignon,
That, m'friend, is a very cool story. I grew up hunting and fishing and on the perifphery of ranching. We "dressed" the fish, birds and animals we killed. We also dehorned and castrated calves, and yeah, we sent them to the slaughterhouse to be butchered. I learned not to make friends with them but it was hard. I was pretty much an animal lover, despite knowing that because man is the apex predator, humans have changed the balance and to keeps wild herds and flocks healthy, there neesd to be hunting. I still own weapons but I haven't gone fishing since Only was a kid and we lived across the street from a neighborhood lake. Those little sun perch were a blast for her to catch and we always tossed them back. I haven't hunted since college. I could again, if things go to hell in a handbasket, but I prefer just running to the grocery store.
ReplyDeleteThat's a fun story!
ReplyDeleteWe raised 50 chickens one year when I was a young teen. That was pretty cool until it came time to slaughter them. It was gruesome, with bloody headless chickens running around the yard. We had to chase them and bring them back. Shudder. THEN we pulled off the feathers, and plucked millions and millions of pin feathers. That was horrible!
I didn't *ever* willingly eat chicken after that. (Mind you, I ate what Mom put on the table, but, ick.)