May 29, 2015--Best of Behind: The Dump

Dump season is about to begin. 

When we relocate to Maine on Sunday, without pickup service, we bring our refuse to the Bristol Dump, or, as it is officially known, the Bristol Transfer Facility. But everyone calls it The Dump and thinks of refuse as garbage.

Here then from June 7, 2010, is an account of our initial visit--

We arrived for the season and at top of our list of things to do was finding the town dump and buying a resident's sticker since we planned to take charge of our own garbage.

This was our priority since we hauled quite a bit of stuff up here and knew before unpacking that we would have a lot to throw out. Both the bags and boxes in which we packed things and a great deal that the previous owners left behind which we either didn't need or like well enough to keep. We also want to live as green a life style as possible up here in Maine, so sorting things out the right way--their way--and recycling them as directed was something we wanted to get right on top of.

So where the dump is, its hours, and how we needed to behave and interact with them was something we have been thinking about for weeks.

You may be wondering why all this seeming angst about refuse. Why all this concern about how to behave and interact with it and those in charge of its disposal. Fair enough.

These concerns derive from our experiences some years ago with the East Hampton dump. As with much else in the Hamptons it was not always pleasant.

First, to control the amount of rubbish tossed into the landfill the town limited the number of dump stickers it sold to residences each year. So there was a rush at Town Hall to purchase them the first day they were available. If you were too late to acquire one, your only choices in regard to your trash were to arrange for expensive private carting (this is the South Fork after all and everything out there comes at premium); you could take your garbage back to the city with you Sunday evening (more than you might imagine did this); or you could skulk out in the middle of the night and dump your garbage either in the woods or stack it by the fence at the entrance to the dump.

This later option disappeared one summer after the dump managers set up a closed-circuit TV monitoring system that caught the likes of Calvin Klein and Martha Stewart disposing of their refuse in this unsavory manner. Among other things, those of us in the relatively low-rent district muttered, "This is how the rich get richer." It also for months gave us lots to gossip and chuckle about. “Can you imagine?  Martha?”

One more thing--in the tony, status-seeking East End having a dump sticker affixed to your front bumper was another way of letting everyone know that you owned a house in the Hamptons. And if you were able to get in line at the Town Hall at 6:00 on the day they first went on sale three hours later, after filling out half-a-dozen forms, showing two pieces of photo ID, and either the deed and/or two local utility bills, not only would you secure one, you would also be assured of getting a bumper sticker with a low number.

Low numbers of all kinds were symbols of status--low-number beach parking permits were coveted (these were for gaudy display on your car’s side window) and especially low telephone numbers.

324-0002, for example, is the number for the legendary local paper, The East Hampton Star, which has been around for seemingly hundreds of years. For so long, in fact, that when they started publishing telephones hadn't even been invented.

Therefore, to have a number of your own in which the last four digits were less than 1,000 meant that you were in residence before the Wall Street bonus babies and the other nouveau riche descended on the place and plopped McMansions into million-dollar-per acre potato fields. In fact, when we sold our modest house, the buyer paid us an extra $1,000 for our phone number. True, it was "only" 324 3026, but at least it had the coveted 324 (the population had grown so large that the telephone company ran out of 324s and instituted the prefix 329); and 324 with 3026 was thus worth literally more than, say, 329 5024. And thus a $1,000.

You get the picture. And therefore, considering our history with garbage, you might understand our dump anxiety as we were taking possession of our Maine cottage by the bay.

On Friday morning with our back seat and trunk almost as full of trash as it had been the day before with clothes and dishes and pots and glassware and food mills and knives and bathroom items and tagine pots, we found our way to the Bristol dump. Actually, the South Bristol “Transfer Facility.” Everything these days seems to be a facility.

To get to it, off the Bristol Road, you turn up Transfer Road and the first thing you notice it that there does not appear to be a guardhouse at the entrance. In East Hampton there was one that was a mini-mansion unto itself and ensconced in it at all times was an imperious, dour municipal worker who took great pleasure in scrutinized dump stickers and turning away anyone whose had expired or was affixed too far to the right or left or, better yet, any of the uninitiated who wandered in without any sticker at all. Actually, his greatest pleasure seemed to be to slow down and especially scrutinize anyone in a car costing more than $75,000. As if he suspected there was an illegal immigrant hidden in the trunk.

Into the Bristol Transfer Facility we trailed behind a couple of battered pickup trucks and a 25 year-old Volvo. We felt a bit out of place in our new Passat station wagon still shiny from the car wash back in New York, not yet coated with splatterings of the ubiquitous Maine mud. The car in that regard is still a work in progress.

At the facility there is no signage in easy sight, nothing to direct you to any of the huge bins into which others were purposefully transferring recyclables. But before wandering about among them, we though to go to the office to ask about purchasing a dump permit and how to display it.

The office was easy to locate and so we parked and wandered over. There was no one in it and so we turned toward an area where it appeared people were dropping off still useful items such as old pots and pans and bicycle parts and toaster ovens and floor lamps, the sorts of things we would subsequently be wanting to dispose of after sorting through what had been left behind by the pervious owners at the house.

At a makeshift counter, receiving these items, were three men who clearly were employees of the town.  With lots of bantering back and forth they seemed to know everyone lined up with still-good stuff that might be of interest to others in need of a second-hand Mixmaster.

“This here one is still working,” said a woman with an old electric fan.

One of the grizzled workers was holding it up close to him so he could scrutinize the wiring. “Bet better than Old Jeb back home,” he chuckled. “Workin’ I mean,” he said with a broad wink. She laughed along with him.

Someone else passed parts of a drum set across the counter. It too underwent close inspection to see if all the mechanisms were intact. They appeared to be. “So Junior’s finally given up on this I see,” a younger facility worker in a New York Yankee cap said to the middle-aged man, Junior’s apparent father, dressed all in flannel.

“Not exactly. I’m the one’s givin’ up. He’s still sleeping so I thought to scoop this damned thing up and bring it over to you. Let someone else take it home to his kid. Spread misery around I always say.”

It was then our turn. Expecting to be treated as an outsider, again from our East Hampton experiences, I turned to the Yankee fan, thinking at least as a fellow Bronx Bomber follower, he might look more favorably on me. I thus took the stranger’s risk to say, “Hey, I see you like the Yanks. Must be a rarity ‘round these parts.” Glancing toward one of his colleagues, I added, “They let you wear that here?”

“Let me?” he said, “They insist on it. This is a dump after all. Fit place for those chumps. We're all Sox fans here. Serious ones.” He pulled at the beak of his cap to make sure I understood that he meant the Yankees were the ones fit for a dump. Worried that I had misstepped, I was pleased to see he was smiling.

“We just moved into a house up here. Down the road toward the Point and want to join the transfer facility. I mean, learn how to use it.”

“Well, good for you,” it was the grizzled worker, “Thanks for helping us out with your taxes.” At that he broke into full-throated laughter. Friendly laughter. I was beginning to feel the tension draining from me.

“I mean, can you tell us where we have to go to get, I mean buy a dump sticker.”

“Right here,” the Red Sox fan said now with a full smile, pointing at the office.

“Great,” I said. Thrilled that we didn’t have to find our way to the Bristol Town Hall and get on line next Thursday, or whenever, before dawn. “I pay you? Here? Or wherever?”

“Right here.”

“An how much does it cost?”

“Nothin’”

“Nothin’? You mean, nothing? Really?” He nodded. “That’s great.” By the time we left East Hampton a sticker was costing about $100.

“Can I get one now?”

“Any time. Any time we’re open. That’s five days a week. We’re closed on Wednesdays and Sundays and on as many holidays as possible. Even Arbor Day.”

“That’s terrific,” I said. That sounded like a green thing to do—to close on Arbor Day. “Bet you spend the whole day plantin’ trees.” It was my turn to grin.

“More likely cuttin’ ‘em down. But I was just foolin’ you ‘bout that. We’re open that day, whenever it is, but you should check the schedule before draggin’ yourself over here with a carload of trash. Nice car, by the way.” He pointed over toward our Passat. I was glad to see that it had acquired more mud from the pitted road that lead to the dump.

“Now about that sticker. Let me go inside and get you one. In the meantime just put your name and address down here. So we can have a record of you.” He passed a clipboard to us on which there was a crumpled sheet of paper that already was half full of names.

“Looks to me,” I said, “that the last name on the list is George Clooney. Does he have a place near here?”

“Not likely,” I received another smile, “Someone wrote it down as a joke. This ain’t one of those fancy kind of Maine towns. Like Kennebunkport. Though we do have the Kresges summering nearby. You know, the folks who own K Mart. Real nice folks. But no Hollywood types. Thank goodness.” He turned to the office, “Give me a moment and I’ll get right back with you.”

I asked Rona if she wanted to put her name on the list. “Only if it’s after George Clooney,” she said with a touch of irony, suggesting I was trying too hard to fit in. “You need to calm down a bit. This is not East Hampton. That’s in part why we want to be here. To get away from all that posturing, and here you are doing your version of it. Try to relax. Everyone thus far has been friendly and welcoming.”

“That’s true,” I admitted, “I am overdoing it.”

“Just a bit?”

I shrugged.

“Here you go. One transfer facility sticker. And the price is right.”

“Thanks. Much appreciated,” I said. It was slipped into a brochure that listed the hours of operation and the various recycling categories—tin cans; newspapers with inserts; clear, green, and brown glass; corrugated cardboard; brown paper bags; aluminum foil and trays, magazines and catalogs; and bulk waste such as shingles, brush, furniture, mattresses, and “demo wood.” I thought we’d have some of all of these and realized that being green in Maine looks like a full-time job.

As we walked to the car, I found the yellow facility sticker in the brochure and must admit hoped it would have a low number. Old habits die slowly. I noticed it did not have any number at all—not a high one, not a low one.

I showed this to Rona and she passed me a look that said, “I told you so.” But, she noticed, there were no instructions about where to affix it to one’s car. “Go back and ask them. I’ll begin to unload the trunk.”

I walked back to my new friend and asked where they required us to attach it.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you about that. Just put it in your glove compartment.”

“In the glove compartment? Not on the bumper or window or anything?”

“You can do anything you want with it, but around here everyone puts it where I told you.”

When I rejoined Rona, with a combination of confusion and delight, I said, “We’re not in the Hamptons anymore.”

She just smiled.

April 15, 2104--NY,NY: Stick-Figure Children

During our second day heading north on I-95, bored by the unchanging landscape and relentless traffic,  after running out of interest in making a list of out-of-state license plates (amazingly, we saw Alaska and Hawaii within 20 miles south of Richmond), we turned to anxieties about all the things that likely changed in Manhattan while we were snowbirding.

"I know you're worried that your Danon yogurt will cost $2.00."

"You bet I am," I confessed. "For me it's a litmus test for the cost of things more generally. Like how much maintenance we have to pay for our apartment and how much it will cost to park in our old garage. Probably $700 a month," I intentionally exaggerated.

"Forget how much they be charging for a double espresso at Balthazar."

"Remember," Rona reminded me, "we doing more eating at home and when we do go out for coffee we've been going to The Smile and . . ."

"Where my cortados will probably be $7.50."

"Can we change the subject?"

"Good idea," I said, cursing the car from Ontario that cut me off. "Those Canadian drivers," I sputtered. "They shouldn't let them in the country."

"It helps our balance of trade," Rona said, showing off that she has an MBA.

Reading my mind, she smiled. "While we're being driven off the road check out that bumper sticker."

I squinted into the glare. "What does it say? I can't read it."

"Our Children Are Not Stick-Figures."

"Huh?"

"That's what it says. Though I have no idea what it means."

"I think I know. I think . . ." I cut myself off. I'm trying to stop repeating everything.

"I'm totally puzzled."

"You remember those Baby On Board signs?"

"I do. Every car in suburbia seemed to have one."

"And remember how that morphed into things like Poodle On Board?"

"Or Mother-In-Law On Board."

"I remember you hated them. You can be such a curmudgeon."

"I cultivate my inner curmudgeon. It's one of the things that helps keep me centered when so much seems like it's spinning out of control or getting stupider."

"So what's with the stick-figure business?"

"Haven't you noticed that affixed to the rear windows of half the SUVs on the road . . .  I hate those too."

"SUVs?"

"For the life of me I can't understand the fetish about them. With gas creeping again toward $4.00 a gallon people are still buying them even though they get 15 miles to the gallon."

"I guess they make people feel safe."

"Maybe they're getting ready for the infrastructure to collapse and the oceans to rise."

"My, you make it so pleasant to drive 1,200 miles together."

"Sorry. I can be such a grump. But people put stick-figure decals on their SUV rear windows, one for each member of their families."

"What?"

"You heard me. Look, check it out, look at that SUV from Quebec that nearly drove us off the road. It has them." I pulled closer, tailgating, so we could take a closer look.

"I see," Rona said, "But be careful. I don't want us to get killed while looking at stick-figures. But, you're right, there appears to be a mommy stick-figure decal and a daddy and . . ."

"And it looks to me like a little girl, an adolescent boy, and . . ."

"And could that be a dog stick-figure?"

"They're members of the family too, aren't they? Dogs, I mean."

"I suppose so."

"To keep us from falling asleep in this traffic let's see if we can spot a two-daddy family."

"Or a family with a stick-figure anaconda. They're becoming more and more popular as pets." Rona was finally getting into it.

I made a face.

Finally, back in Manhattan, after unpacking and making a round of obligatory phone calls, we went through a week's worth of newspapers we had shlepped with us from Florida.

"Look at this," Rona said, all excited. She passed last Thursday's New York Times Style section to me. "More of the same."

"More of the same what?" I was still racing through Wednesday's paper.

"Like the stick-figure business."

"'Three-Seat Strollers'? That's the story you want me to read?"

"Yes, about how there's an increasing number of affluent families with three children."

"So?"

"So according to the article, on the Upper East Side in the year 2000, 49 percent of the richest families had two or more children but now the percentage is up to 59 percent, with a decided edge to three children."

"And, what's the big deal?"

"Some are claiming, if you'd read this, that the third child is a 'status child.'"

"I'm not following this."

"With two kids you might be able to get away with a two-bedroom apartment; but with three you need at least three. This shows you have the money to buy a place that size. You know what a fortune it is. Especially Downtown and on the East Side."

"You mean it's no longer enough to have a second home in the Hamptons?"

"Everyone has a house out there."

"Or a Range Rover?"

"Ditto. Two or three from New York nearly ran over you an hour ago when you were dawdling in the passing lane."

"I was going 80."

"What can I tell you, they wanted to go 90."

"So now when we go to the Met or Modern uptown we'll get run off the sidewalk by a three-seat stroller?"

"Now you're getting the picture."

"Do you think my yogurt will really be $2.00?"

December 26, 2013--Cafe Rona

The morning of Christmas eve we got off to a lazy start.

I was up to my usual thing--reading My Promised Land in bed when at about 8:45 Rona began to stir.

After she was fully awake, rather than go right downstairs for waffles in what I have come to call Cafe Rona, we remained in bed looking west out over the city in sunlight, toward the Hudson River, and beyond to New Jersey.

Without wind or even a breeze, it was a motionless morning. The only things moving were a bank of languid clouds and planes in Newark Airport flight patterns.

"So many planes today," Rona said.

"Right before Christmas must be about the busiest travel day of the year," I suggested.

"It's fun to think about where everyone is headed."

"Packed in like sardines," I said, referring again to the recent piece in the New York Times about how airlines are cramming more seats into their planes in pursuit of more profit.

Ignoring my cynicism, Rona said, "This early they're probably heading south or west. It's too early for any overseas flights. But wouldn't it be nice to be heading for Spain later today." She snuggled closer.

"I'm happy right here with you," I said, enjoying the snuggling, "Though Spain--"

"You know what's interesting?" Rona asked, looking out the bedroom windows, "All the helicopters. Maybe I haven't noticed them before, but look at how many are flying back and forth."

And sure enough there was a steady stream, mainly heading south parallel with the river. "They look to be spaced about a minute apart."

"Here come two more. And right behind them another one. Do you think something unusual's going on?"

"I don't know. Maybe since the airports and roads are busy they're ferrying people there. You know, above the traffic."

"Or they're charters taking people out to the Hamptons for the holidays."

"Or they are privately owned taking rich people to Martha's Vineyard."

"When we're downstairs," Rona said, beginning to rise, "let's see if we can look up what's going on. Maybe it's just normal traffic or maybe something special is happening."

While Rona was making the coffee, waffles, and Black Forest bacon, I puttered around the Internet to see what I could dig up.

"I can't find any news about this morning's helicopter traffic. Let me see what I can learn about charters."

"How many strips of bacon do you want?"

"I think three." While placing my order, from the New York Helicopters Website, I gathered a picture of what was most likely the situation.

"Listen to this, from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m., they offer charters from downtown Manhattan to the local airports. And it looks as if for today at least all their choppers are booked."

"No surprise," Rona said. Intoxicating smells were already emanating from the kitchen.

"They say it take 8 to 12 minutes to get to any of the three airports--JFK, LaGuardia, and Newark. And listen to this."

"What?"

"Guess how much it costs."

"I'd say, let me think, maybe $150 each way?"

"Think again," I said.

"OK. I'm assuming more. These flights are obviously not for ordinary people, so I'll say, $250 a person."

"Not even close," I said, "How does $875 per sound?"

"How much did you say?" Rona sounded incredulous. As was I.

"You heard me--$875. And there's a two-person minimum."

"Ridiculous. So before tax and probably a tip it will set a couple back $1,750 just to get to the friggin airport! Things are really getting out of hand."

"But wait, there's good news."

"What's that?"

"You can take up to 25 pounds of luggage."

"You call that good news?"

"Well, it's something. At least they don't charge for luggage as many airlines now do."

"When we travel," Rona said, laughing about the absurdity of this. "My shoe bag alone weighs 25 pounds."

"I'm glad you and not I said that."

September 30, 2013--The 99th Percentilers

As the Occupy Wall Street protesters reminded us last year, there is the one percent and then the rest of us who make up the 99 percent.

Also in New York--in Manhattan--there is another 99 percent. Actually, 99 percentilers: those 4-and 5-year-olds who score in the 99th percentile on the exam that determines whether or not (mainly not) one's toddler is admitted to the city's most competitive and prestigious private schools. Places such as Dalton, Trinity, and Horace Mann. Schools that from this early age significantly determine if junior 12 years later will be admitted to Harvard, Yale, or Princeton. And after that, who knows, the Supreme Court, Wall Street, and even the White House.

New York is the town that Lake Wobegon envied--where every kid is not just above average but way, way above average. Some are even 99 percentile scorers on the Early Childhood Admission Assessment exam that up to now has been the filter that separates the anointed from the just OK.

And if your child is among the anointed, that of course means you are as well. Nothing is more affirming than that--it means you passed along your superior DNA and all the tutoring and chauffeuring from chess lessons to French lessons, from peewee soccer to peewee field hockey paid off. One's foundational work is done and all that remains is resume-building for college applications.

And bragging.

According to a report in the New York Times, here's how it feels among the wealthy in Manhattan if your child does not score in the 99th percentile--

Justine Oddo is just such a mother whose twins got into "only" the 95s. She opined, "It seemed like everyone got 99s. It was demoralizing. It made me think my kids are not as smart as the rest of the kids."

Maybe yes; maybe no. It could be that Ms. Oddo did not shell out the $200 an hour it costs to have one's child tutored for the private school admissions test.

Well aware of all the coaching and prepping, the Independent Schools Admissions Association recommended to its 140 members that they no longer use these exam scores. What to do with applicants is another story--using numbers and percentiles makes life easier than having to rely on interviews and letters of recommendation.

Yes, they do require these letters, though what a recommender would write about a youngster just out of diapers is hard to fathom.

"He's a good eater."

"She knows how to use a smart phone."

"He knows his alphabet and can count to 100."

"She can take off and put on her own snowsuit."

In the meantime, the parental celebrating continues. One couple whose daughter is a 99 percentiler threw a big catered bash for her and her dozens of best friends at their Hamptons cottage.

One guest wondered what they will do for an encore when she gets into "their school of choice."

Maybe a long weekend in Paris?

August 14, 2013--Dog Days

During the dog days of summer, one friend's dog is doing very well indeed.

While his owners were away for a long weekend, Fido (not his real name) was being taken care of poshly by City Pooch (not its real name).

But the following from "Marco" of City Pooch is unredacted--

Dear Diane & Dave [not their real names]:  

It was really great meeting you both (and Fido!) yesterday. I can tell that he is very well looked after. Especially as he was chilling on the couch next to me, dozing off. It's a hard life for Fido, huh? :-) 

To recap this weekend's services:  

Thurs Aug 1 - PM: you will bring Fido and his accoutrements to my place, 1223 Bedford Avenue. If you have time, I can show you around the apartment and the yard. On Thursday night, I'll give him dinner and his PM walk. He will, of course, sleep with me. :-) 

Fri Aug 2 - Tuesday Aug 6: I'll be giving Fido his morning walk, breakfast, a vigorous period of mid--day fun (running with me, playing fetch in the yard, taking long walks with me) - my goal is to wear him out. He'll get dinner and a PM walk, then bed around 10-11 PM.  (He will of course sleep with me.)

Tues Aug 6 - AM: you'll be coming by at some point in the earlier part of the day to pick Fido up. We can text coordinate the time for that. 

For pics and videos:  

1. You can follow my Instagram account "dogs&cats" where all the photos of Fido will be streaming. I will also be texting you the best pics.  

2. Videos, I will email to you both on a regular basis (about 1-2 vids per day) 

As for future daytime walk needs, just let me know. I can walk Fido myself sporadically until you need a full time walker, at which point I will set you up with an accredited, bonded, insured person who I trust, and who has received solid client feedback.  

I have agreed to discount you for the Fido service this time to a flat $400.  

Please confirm we're a go, and I look forward to spoiling Fido at my place beginning Thursday! 

Who do you think had the better weekend? 

Diane and Dave stuck in stop-and-go Hamptons' traffic? Or Fido, sleeping with Marco in ultra-hip Williamsburg?