The Garbage Scoundrels

Typical for any third child, I grew up playing with a lot of hand-me-down toys and wearing a lot of hand-me-down clothes. Regardless that some of those hand-me-downs were my brother’s. So instead of a cutesy pink and purple bike that I longed for, I had a boy’s Huffy stunt bike.

But long before the stunt bike, I had a black Big Wheel tricycle that used to be his. BLACK. I had long blonde hair, ribbons, and I was driving a boy’s Big Wheel around town like nobody’s business.

One summer day, happily playing in the yard, I parked my Big Wheel next to the dump (aka, the garbage cans at the top of our yard) and ran off to do God-knows-what.

When I returned, the scary garbagemen and their thundering trash eating machine were coming up the block and were nearly at my house.

Paralyzation kicked in. I was frozen behind some shrubbery as I watched them grab my only means of transportation, my symbol of freedom, and toss it in the mouth of putrification.

As they drove on to the next house, I continued to stand there, immobile, icy sweat forming on my five-year-old skin. With my tricycle gone, I knew I would have to face the only thing meaner and more intimidating than cigar-chewing, stain-mottled garbagemen (ok, maybe they weren’t, but this is how I remember it).

My dad.

Now, to anyone who has met my dad in the past 10 years, he seems like an easy-going retiree intent to spoil his grandchildren with candy corn, jellybeans, and M&M’s pulled from his pockets.

But growing up with him was an entirely different story. In short, my siblings and I were scared of him. Loud, angry tangents about lying politicians, curse words sprinkled through dinner table diatribes about how construction workers were useless, union workers were overpaid, “Pennsi” drivers (their house borders NJ and PA) were the bain of his existence, and too many others to count.

But there were recurring themes — honesty and hard work.

So when a toy that he spent hard-earned money on was left out carelessly next to the garbage and taken away with the trash, I dreaded the tongue-lashing, the “Dammit, Heidi!” that would come with it.

But I plucked up my courage, peeked my tear-stained face around the ferns next to our house, and confessed my sins in a torrent of apologies and sobs.

To this day, I’m not sure if my dad was already starting to soften, or if he was just so taken aback by one of his kids seeking solace and appeasement for their grievous behavior.

Whatever the case, my dad gave me a few “there-there’s” and before the sun went down that day…
I had a brand new Cabbage Patch Big Wheel.

It was PINK. It was PURPLE. It was covered in FLOWERS.

And I loved that damn bike until my knees smashed against the handlebars.

My siblings still bring it up. “The day Heidi was dumb enough to leave her bike out for the garbagemen and Dad went out and bought her a brand new one.”

Sometimes being the youngest has its advantages, like owning a piece of my dad’s tender little Grinchy heart.