I took my recycling over to the landfill today, a task I always enjoy. I can trace this back to my childhood summer vacations spent at a cabin on Lake Florence in the Poconos. It was a wholesome couple of weeks: swimming out to the float, catching sunfish and catfish, sailing and canoeing, hiking through the woods, outwitting the ancient soda machine under Cabin #9 and debating whether the giant snapping turtle was still alive. If it rained there were jigsaw puzzles and crosswords to do and books to read, but there was no television reception. (We were at the cabin when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, and we still berate my father because we didn't get to watch this historic event.)
But the highlight was the weekly trip to the garbage dump in old Mr. Treat's ramshackle pickup. We kids would jump in the back, along with the trash from all the families around the lake, and head up the unpaved, rutted driveway out to the main road. If you were on one side of the truck you could catch a glimpse of the mysterious little spring-fed pool where Mr. Treat raised bait.
Such a adventure probably broke all kinds of safety rules and would never be permitted nowadays (get the helmets and hand sanitizer!), but we had a great time bouncing around as the truck hit potholes and lurched around corners.
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