Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that my wife and I would someday go dumpster diving. But that became our assignment one Sunday evening in the summer of 2011.
It started innocently enough. Nancy and I were celebrating our 45th wedding anniversary with a big family gathering at Flaming Gorge. Our kids came from Lander, Washington, Texas, and Colorado, along with a flock of grandkids. We boated, barbecued, soaked up perfect weather, and enjoyed one of those rare weekends when everything goes exactly right.
When cleanup time came, our Texas crew used big black garbage bags for everything, and soon the place looked spotless. Everyone was sunburned, worn out, and ready for home. Nancy and I stayed one more night with the motorhome and boat, enjoying the sudden quiet after a wonderful family whirlwind.
As the sun was setting on this beautiful weekend, suddenly my cell phone rang.
It was our daughter from Texas, calling after they reached Lander.
“Dad . . . I think we accidentally threw away all our clothes in the dumpster.”
Their dirty laundry had been stuffed into a garbage bag and tossed out with the trash.
“What do you want us to do?” I asked, already fearing the answer.
She wanted us to go find them.
You’ve got to be kidding.
The campground was full of folks enjoying peaceful dinners while Nancy and I made the rounds, searching for one black garbage bag full of very ripe laundry. We got surprisingly efficient. Nancy, athletic as ever, dove headfirst into dumpsters while I held her ankles and supervised, which is a husband’s polite way of saying, “I stayed as far from the smell as possible.”
It was awful. Smelly. Flies everywhere. Thankfully, no rats. I was prepared to renegotiate our anniversary celebration if rats appeared.
After the third dumpster we found success. The missing clothes. Eureka. Victory never smelled so memorable.
Just then a kind couple walked over and invited us to dinner, assuming we were homeless and foraging for food. We thanked them, proudly held up the bag of rescued laundry, and explained. Everyone had a good laugh, except maybe the clothes.
And that, friends, is our dumpster diving story.
Some More About Smells
Last week’s column about Wyoming smells brought a wonderful flood of memories from readers.
Aaron Rose of Cody wrote about fresh, damp sage mixed with juniper transporting him back to childhood deer and elk hunts with his dad and brothers. He added the smell of fallen leaves, horses, real Christmas trees, Grass Creek oil field odors, freshly mown grass, babies and, per his wife, a new litter of puppies.
Toren True of Casper wrote:
“You are right. Smells are memories. One you missed a big one: BACON. (Caps intentional.) Even vegetarians can’t deny it. Camp mornings, coming in from chores . . . I have more, but breakfast awaits.”
Former Wheatland and Sheridan publisher Stephen Woody reminded me of one I absolutely should not have forgotten: the smell of a newspaper press. That rich scent of ink and paper is unmistakable to anyone who has ever lived in a newsroom. I love it. He does, too. Hard to believe I left out both newspaper ink and bacon. That may require a formal apology.
I also forgot to mention my love of cigars. A good fresh stogie offers a heavenly scent to me and my buddies who indulge
Kate Williams wrote about her favorite alpine scent, a sunny spring ski day at the top of a mountain: snow, sun, pine, air, and (in the good old days) ski wax blending into pure mountain magic.
Wonderful memories, all of them.
The Nose Knows
Which brings me to one final thought.
Smells are powerful. They take us home. They take us back. They remind us who we are and where we’ve been: childhood, family, newsrooms, campfires, sagebrush, bacon, babies, Christmas trees, and yes . . . occasionally dumpsters.
Some memories smell sweet. Some smell like ink and hard work. And some (if you celebrate your anniversary the Sniffin way) smell like three campground dumpsters and a bag of Texas laundry in mid-July.
But here’s the truth: when those smells come wrapped in family, laughter, and stories worth telling, they don’t stink at all.
In fact, they smell like a life well-lived.
And if my wife ever asks me to go dumpster diving again…
I’m bringing a clothespin for my nose.
And maybe inviting that nice couple to dinner.
Bill can be reached at bill@cowboystatedaily.com.
