Because I’m a person who believes that individual sustained action, no matter how modest, can make a difference, last year I decided to begin disposing of my home’s food scraps at a composting collection site.
It was my small individual-action resolution for 2025.
It meant that most Saturday mornings, I’d drive to the Holly Hill Resource Recovery Facility —my town’s waste disposal and recycling site, better known as “the dump” —to drop a compostable bag filled with my family’s weekly scraps into one of three large black bins.
I quickly developed a liking for this routine. My minor weekly act of environmentalism made me feel good. Plus, the dump is a happening place, let me tell you.
You drive in, and, depending on the day, a staff member checks that you have the required permit, the kind you hang on the rearview mirror. At $25, I think it’s a bargain.
In addition to various receptacles for recyclables (from cardboard and paper to electronics and metal), there’s a Goodwill collection site, a stand to donate and take books (for free, of course), and a clothing donation bin.
Really, unless you have a hoarding problem, there’s no excuse for anyone’s home to be cluttered with stuff they don’t want.
Saturday at midmorning being the dump’s busiest time, townsfolk are laser-focused on properly depositing their stuff so they can quickly leave, making room for the next car.
These are my people! Boy, am I ever proud to be a permit-carrying resident of this town’s dump.
I’ve grown to think of the dump as a sacred space, which is why I almost had a heart attack on my last 2025 trip there this past December 31st: As I was driving away after dropping off my compostable bag, I witnessed a staff rolling the food scraps bins into the large covered area for regular trash.
Is this a trick? Do they just mix into the trash all the scraps we devoted recyclers collect?
Man, was I ever disappointed and pissed. I’m gonna get to the bottom of this, if it’s the last thing I do, I thought.
I would just have to do it on my next visit, though. I was with Diego, my 32-year-old developmentally disabled routine-loving son, who’s as committed as I am to our weekly visit to Holly Hill. What with the end-of-year-frenzy, we had places to go and things to do.
A week later, I returned to the dump, alone. Then, as I was dropping my scraps bag into the bin, a staff member approached to roll one of the bins into the covered area.
I’d given the institution the benefit of the doubt, rationalizing that what I’d witnessed on December 31st was a one-off: the scraps collectors were on vacation and their flight was delayed, or maybe they were sick with the flu, or their truck had broken down. But no! It was all a big scam.
“Sir, may I ask where you’re taking that bin? You don’t mix the food scraps with the rest of the garbage, do you?” I asked the staff.
“Oh, no,” he said. “It’s just that we have larger receptacles in there. We empty these bins when they’re full.”
“Thank goodness! I’ve been doing this for a year now and for a moment I thought it was all for nothing.”
“No way. This is a very successful program.”
Another lesson on not jumping to conclusions.
Small individual action resolution for 2026:
(1) Continue with the noble task of collecting food scraps, and
(2) Drink sparkling water only when it comes from our new SodaStream —a Christmas present from my son Andres and his sensational girlfriend, Lilly.
I believe in the three Rs: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.