Waste management

When I come to Los Angeles in the summer I live in an apartment on an alley. Actually, an alley in Torrance, one of the over 88 cities of LA county. It’s an area of small homes, a few shingled cottages from the 1940s, many tract era houses, and on the hillside multi-storied stuccos on stilts. A few two and three-storey apartment buildings cluster closer to the highway. Our place is the upper level rental at back of a small house, the kind built before the era of subdivisions. That’s what the decades of real estate expansion did here. Bungalows sprouted a second story, rear lots added rentals, garages became storage, driveways became patios, and cars went to the street where between 5 pm and 6 am there is no parking at all. When I walk the alley, here and there a garage door will be partially raised. Boxes and plastic bags jumbled inside from concrete floor to ceiling. No car. It’s strange for me, a California transplant to the Midwest where housing space abounds and population declines.

Los Angeles is not a very conversational place. Neighbors don’t acknowledge one another much. But in summertime the alley is lively: the cat lady calls to her felines by name in the morning, the classic car enthusiast guns his burgundy vintage Mustang as he heads out to Saturday breakfast, the Mexican swap meet guy hunches over the tail gate of his truck tinkering with something, and Steve the iron worker forges metal trellises with his blowtorch in the backyard.

But the prince of the alley is Larry. He has a real set up. And he’s friendly. In shorts and polo shirt, comfortable shoes and thick white socks, Larry pushes a laundry cart he’s customized for action. With brooms erect and bags dangling off the sides of the cart, he is outfitted for battle. Trundling methodically along the alley, Larry halts at the round, black 300-gallon trash containers set out every two or three residences. With gloved hands and a variety of home-devised spears, he probes the barrels for recyclables. It’s delicate work. Four feet high and nearly four feet across, the black containers are---as the city website proclaims---the frontline of the waste management system for alley residents. Unofficially, the Mexicans with small pickup trucks scour the alley on weekends for large metal: water heaters, room air conditioners, and miscellaneous pipes residents leave to the side of the barrels. We are on Larry’s Monday morning route. His schedule is set by the Mexicans and the city. On Mondays, Larry can park his cart at the barrels and poke in peace. On Tuesday mornings, an enormous city truck wedges and beeps its way through where two cars cannot pass; automated claws extend to grasp the containers, lift and tilt and dump them, now lighter from Larry’s work. And unimpeded thanks to the Mexicans. A lone driver operates a vehicle that would have been useful at the siege of Stalingrad.

Larry is retired and he first began re-cycling to get some exercise and lose a little weight. It enables him to get out in the fresh air and move around. And the alleys are an El Dorado. His son sometimes helps out; it’s worth it to net a grand or two per year. On summer mornings when the windows are open, I hear Larry’s soft, patient prodding of the barrels around 10 am. These are a retiree’s hours. I call out and he responds with a wave and a smile.

Today we term this work recycling or re-purposing; it connotes extra effort associated with higher values. Monochromatically “green,” earth-friendly, with a whiff of the virtuous. But such current discourse is pallid compared to the vocabulary of the past. Colorful, motley English terms---rag and bone, grubber, tosher and mudlark---refer to people. Like the tinkers, itinerant menders of kitchen pots and sharpeners of knives who extended the life of valuable metal. Smelly at best, disreputable if not illegal at worst, nevertheless, in the nineteenth century, re-cycling had a human heart.

Lest I wax too nostalgic, it’s worth remembering the crass practicality of the more distant past, armies melted down bronze statuary for weapons, roads were laid with the stones from the monuments of the defeated, new towns were built on the convenient rubble of their predecessors. Today in some European cities, you have to walk down steps into churches, the street level having risen several feet over time.

The online “Solid Waste Management Glossary” (from Aerobic Composting to Worm Culture and Yard Waste) is encouraging for the global environment, but, alas, not much fun in my daily life. A 2007 article in The Economist details impressive improvements in recycling in Europe, Japan, and Britain, as well as the US. National rates for waste recycling have risen to over 50 percent in some European countries. New developments like sustainable packaging and spectroscopic sorting have streamlined the recycle process; markets for recycled materials have emerged. It’s scientifically and technologically inspiring, an intellectual G-up as I haul my bottles and cans to Meijer here in Flint.

I miss Larry though. At least my Flint paper goes to the Neighborhood Association’s collection where there’s always some chit chat with the volunteers on Saturday mornings---a bit of human connection as we manage our waste.

Read this essay and others at The East Village Magazine, http://www.eastvillagemagazine.org/

Social Utility

I am into Facebook. This past October when I got the urge to be social, I could not log on to the Facebook page. Panic. How to find my login name, what was my password? I am locked out of society. My retrieval system to the rescue: rummage in my briefcase for the piece of paper on which various passwords---campus email, university libraries, journals, credit cards---are scribbled horizontally, vertically, obliquely.

My friend Jan wrote a sharp essay about Facebook. It’s somewhere on her blog, Nightblind. I can’t find that online now either---too much time has passed for me to remember the month she wrote it or the tag it might have. She and I are in the same age cohort; we are boomers, as the pop sociologists say. What are we doing here in our early 60s posting on an electronic social network? You’d think if we didn’t have a social network by this time we might just hang on until we are in “assisted living” and go with what’s there. We are old enough to have grown up with another social network, one that monitored now forgotten minutiae of behavior: gloves and hats, invitations and thank you notes in the mail. And yet here we are: pursuing the socially networked life online.

I can’t scorn these new ways. One night a couple of months ago my side of the city of Flint suddenly resounded with booming sounds like fireworks. Only it was October 3. Facebook friends were flummoxed---what was the reason? No answer online, but comfort comes from communal clucking about mysterious and perhaps alarming events.

Facebook is the preeminent social network service or, as Google and founder Mark Zuckerberg categorized it, a social utility. Social utility is not new. It is the backbone of the nineteenth century fiction. Austen, Thackeray, Dickens, Balzac---the utility of social connections for status and success is the driving force of their plots. Where would these novels be without the filiations, gossip, and intrigues of social networking? If the characters had had a reliable service, think of the possibilities for the climbers, poseurs, parvenus.

Back in the day, certain behavior used to “have social utility”: an advantageous marriage, a promising business connection, joining the right church. My maternal forebears were keen observers of these social stratagems to advance in the world. They had phrases they used privately to describe people who deftly or disastrously deployed them. Today we openly, indeed brazenly, network, log on and link in to the socially useful.

When people post obnoxious statements, I can “hide” them. Not just the present irritating opinions, but the people themselves and everything they say on Facebook in the future. They disappear from my News Feed, retrievable later when I feel up to it. Exiled from my trough of web-based chatter, chit chat, or per uno chiacchierare as the Italians say---the natively gifted in this field. What a change from the past social life in the flesh when I mentally strained to marshal a smart retort, or physically had to dodge and dart to avoid people. And then the guilt. My mother ---who as a young woman was fully armed with social skills to deflate such verbal irritations---would be impressed with this new, painless convenience.

Our city newspaper has gone to three days a week. The task of recycling has eased, but the consequences for local democracy are negative. What has come to the rescue? Facebook. Flint civic and cultural organizations---most all are on Facebook, the FIA and FIM, Buckham, Steady Eddy. Along with the Mayor and the young urbans renewing the city.

My neighborhood association now has a Facebook page. We can join efforts to maintain our neighborhood, to advocate with our Councilman, to discuss city problems. We find the “Affordable Handyman” to keep our old houses going. Most of all, the neighborhood Facebook page helps us with safety---the bedrock social utility. We keep the neighborhood page up on our laptops in the kitchen, ready to alert others about “scopers” roaming our streets. A Facebook member sends text messages to our phones as an alert. Highly efficient when compared to email which is fading along with dusty answering machines.

My students are on Facebook, of course; they reinvent themselves there, play games. A new profile picture, an update of personal information, album after album of pictures---their doings, their relatives’ doings, their friends at indecipherable and generally uninteresting events. Scores of people whom my Grandmother once would have dismissed icily remarking, “I don’t believe we have met.”

So now a librarian colleague has taught me how to use “delicious” to save my teaching and research bookmarks. It’s wondrously efficient for organizing sites and has brought order to research and teaching. And it has a social networking feature. Maybe my Facebook network would like to know about my primary sources or 19th century maps of Central Europe? Probably not.

Several of my former students have invited me to Linked In. I don’t think I can take it; I’m not building my career, I’m trying to dismantle it. Toward the close of last summer I went to see friends for a twilight glass of wine and some chit chat. Where was her husband, I asked, as we walked to the candle-lit screened in porch? Oh, he’ll be out soon; he’s just back in the dining room in the dark---facebooking.

Read this essay and others at The East Village Magazine, http://www.eastvillagemagazine.org/