The Dump

I just hauled our 29 year old couch and companion love seat to the Dump. Except Dumps do not exist anymore. Ours is the Factoria Recycling and Transfer Station (a fun FRATS acronym to play with) conveniently located 2.0 miles down the hill from us. Sebastian and I sawed the big couch into several pieces so we could make just one trip and even include some smaller items in my pick-up truck. Sebi enjoys destroying furniture, so was ecstatic at the opportunity to saw and rip apart couches. Treasures poured out of those bulky pinatas. Legos were everywhere. So were crayons, pencils, pens, coins, game tokens, puzzle pieces, cards, tools, and petrified food. The grand prize was a Wi controller that our son Matt had been searching for forever and blaming everyone else for losing. The one trip to FRATS was still $25.50, so we saved pricier junk removal fees and avoided that upselling process. It felt like I was inducting my 16 year old grandson in a manly rite of passage. I remember my father riding shotgun with me on his last trip to the Dump in his late 70’s. Soon I expect I will be moving into the shotgun seat.