The actual bumper sticker says mother, not father. The alteration, as well as a detour from what I intended to write about, are necessary. I’ve got a guilty conscience and need to deal with it.

When I was a kid growing up on Long Island I loved going to the dump with my dad.  I got to sit in the front seat (a coveted position usually occupied by my mother or older siblings) and my job was to scout out dumpsites in what was then rural Suffolk County. There were no solid waste management facilities and any unsigned (“No dumping allowed.”) stretch of vacant land qualified as a final resting place for stuff we no longer wanted. Ravines were particularly prime locations and watching garbage of all sorts tumble downhill was always entertaining

My dad’s constant pastime was remodeling our home, which generated lots of junk. I doubt he gave much thought to any long-term effects of our dump trips; “environmental impact” wasn’t something people talked about then. All I knew was that each trip was an adventure and special time with my father. To this day I feel a bit closer to my long-deceased dad when I drive by the transfer station at the north end of Lake Union.

Fast forward to now. A “Dump It Junk Removal” truck pulled out of my driveway over the weekend with a half-ton of garbage, the result a remodeling project we’ve just begun.  There’s no denying that our household made a considerable contribution to whatever landfill that junk went to … and it won’t be our last.

I wish I could say that our home improvements will result in something globally responsible, such as less energy consumption, but our primary motive is aesthetic. Our house is 60 years old and has flooring resembling sedimentary rock formations; layer upon layer of carpet, tile, linoleum and paint under carpet and padding that have retained the smell of every substance deposited on it by dog, cat, or human. We are replacing everything with ceramic tile, and that means tearing up the decidedly not biodegradable stuff already there. Like my dad, I had not given much thought to the long-term environmental impact of disposing this stuff. Unlike my dad, all I had to do was pick up the phone, schedule a pick-up, write a check, and watch as it was trucked away.

For weeks my family and I have trying to do more right and green things, and I feel like I’ve cancelled out all the progress we’ve made … and then some.  Perhaps I could find out about the afterlife of trashed linoleum and carpet, but I feel bad enough as it is. I don’t think I really want to know.