Frankie goes on a trip

                                               We have all responded to government direction in the current pandemic. Some obey, some disobey. Most of us have things that we will do or not.  For example, it may only be a little gesture but I have given up accepting paper receipts at garages and stores. Paying by card rather than cash has removed the necessity of a bit of paper. I have lapsed on occasions with my other protocols, suddenly brought myself up short when I have gotten too close to somebody, occasionally had to back track when I haven’t reached into my pocket for my mask. But, Dear Reader, I have not accepted a receipt for a year or more. Except once, perhaps.

     I have, for many years, enjoyed trips to the town dump at Riverside here in North Vancouver. There is something immensely satisfying about clearing out accumulations of organic waste, excess bits of wood, the occasional mattress, a well-worn sofa. I am sure, Dear Reader, that many of you can relate to the palpable pleasure of clutter clearing. It brings joy to Irene, my wonderful wife, when she sees the clear out happening and backyard detritus becoming  a cluster of clarity once again. Sometimes she comes along to the Dump for the ride and the chat. But now we have our son, Grant, and, most importantly, Grant’s truck.  Grant also comes with Frankie. Frankie is a brindle combination of Staffordshire terrier and pit bull. He is 5 years old and is a dog with the emotional baggage of separation anxiety. He is a dog of immense lovability, his sad eyes  melting many a heart. Although Grant obeys the leash laws on local walks, he really doesn’t have to because Frankie will never move far away from his side. On the occasions that Irene and I have looked after him, his head droops into tragic sadness, his eyes tell a story of a mournful missing. When his master returns, there is a wag-fest of joy and jumping which is wonderful to behold. It is very easy to love Frankie the dog.

   There is not much that is attractive about a town dump. For one thing, the smell hardly titillates, rotting vegetative matter is not a perfumed potpourri. Unloading, one is conscious of something gooey and slippery underfoot. One closes one’s mind and tries not to imagine what one is standing on. One focusses with the utmost concentration on not falling over. One smiles when one casts one’s eye over and spots a child’s toy and remembers one’s Aussie friend who had seen such a thing once many Christmases previously and  was tempted to grab a plastic toy digger to give to his young son as a seasonal gift. Santa’s little helper scouring the refuse of the town dump for his Christmas shopping!

   So Irene was excited because there was to be a dump trip. Ball caps were donned. Virile vitality sprang into action loading wood and tyres. Soon there was a tidy gap under the back porch where once there had been hidden nooks for nesting rodents. I was not allowed to strap down the load, that being the job of the truck owner and I being 68 years old and, therefore, far too old to be in possession of the load strapping faculty. Faith in one’s elders is an attribute of many indigenous peoples around the world but, apparently, no longer acceptable in a Caucasian caucus. So I watched as a vigorous tightening and hooking went on, pursing my lips firmly so that no old fogeyish advice could escape. Finally all was set and I assumed my position in the passenger seat having usurped King Frank from his throne. Grant eased himself into the driver’s seat, cranked up some Bruce Springsteen, the ‘Boss’ at least bridges the generation gap, on the system and we were away.

  I have never met the manager of the town dump but she is somebody I would truly love to meet. Why? Well, because I have always been greeted with humour and a smile and merriness there. If a leader is responsible for the happiness of the work force then the high heidyin of the Riverside Dump has done an outstanding job.

     It was a beautiful day as we pulled out of our driveway.  Sometimes father and son have what we have always called a ‘companionable silence’. But now that Grant is older, his conversation is less a Neanderthal grunt and now the slow train that leaves the station. Once moving it is hard to stop. An edgeways word slipped in from the old man on that 15 minute journey was not an option. My job consisted of pushing backwards the encroaching dog, who continually wanted to join me in the front seat and listening to our son who was suffering a severe case of diatribe-itis.  There was a long line up on arrival, a ten minute wait for trucks and cars with trailers to go through. However once we were in the big shed and reversed back close to the rubbish heap, I did not even have to get out. Grant decided he could do it all on his own. Frankie was a bit alarmed not to be with his master but within minutes he was back in the cab. Then we were on to the scales; the hockey stick with the card processor was thrust through the driver’s window. I gave Grant my card. The guy’s face was expressionless.

“Receipt?” He asked.

“No,” I replied

“Yes,” Grant contradicted.

Receipt came, was thrust hastily into my hand as we pulled off, dog’s head suddenly arrived on my shoulder from behind, dog’s tongue ventured a lick of cheek. I pushed him back, unwrapped the receipt and found a dog biscuit wrapped therein.

  Not much of a story is this, Dear Reader. Just a nano-second of kindness which bore out for me yet again why a trip to the town dump is such a marvellous occasion in my life. Now all I have to do is find some more junk, more that is useless and worn out so that I can have a wee trip, after all, friends, bigger trips are not really possible at the moment are they?

        Enjoy Spring or Fall and be safe.