The Adventurers

Every so often, bits and pieces from my childhood return unexpectedly in fragments. Almost as if through splintered shafts of light, some details remain in the shadows and others have bright rays of light shone on them. More than the memory itself, I find myself chasing down a feeling rather than the actual memory. Those moments are elusive and fleeting, leaving as quickly as they came and staying just long enough for me to remember a time before the world, with all its weight, had found my shoulders. As much as I am grateful for all of the knowledge I’ve acquired in 60+ years of living, life as a child had an ease and lightness that simply cannot be replicated. It can only be traveled to in small bursts that show up randomly, waiting to be savored and appreciated for however long they last.

Spring during the 1960s was one of the first of those fragmented moments.

Every June during my single-digit years, a few miles west and south of our family farm, a small parcel of land sat waiting for me, courtesy of Pine River Township. I don’t remember the exact location. I only remember my younger sister and I pleading with our dad to take us along on his trip to the dump. During the winter months, the fenced and gated area remained closed, but in the spring, the padlock was removed and everyone in the township loaded up their trucks and headed over to the dump.

What constitutes trash has changed dramatically in the past 50 years. The dump of my childhood did not contain the things that fill my trash bin today. Most things at that time were of fairly decent quality, so if it ended up at the dump, it was often because someone no longer had a use for it. The sheer variety and volume of what could be found was staggering to a nine year old, which is why we begged to go along each spring, despite the physical and mental toll that getting there took on my younger sister and me.

Being younger and smaller than me, my sister always had the middle spot on the bench seat of my dad’s blue Chevy farm truck. Sitting next to an impatient man in a truck with a manual transmission was its own hazard. There was only so much space for important things like kneecaps and hers took the brunt of fourth gear several times between our house and the dump. From my window seat, freshly turned earth and stretches of bright green wheat fields flew past us in a dusty blur. When the truck finally reached the entrance to the dump, the worst of the ride was over for my sister. My terror, however, was just beginning.

The back of our truck was stacked to overflowing with a winter’s worth of junk, none of which our dad had any intention of offloading by hand. The hole that everything would eventually end up in was massive and deep, dropping off sharply at the edge. We braced ourselves as our dad pulled forward, threw the gear shift into reverse, and stomped down on the gas pedal. With gravel flying, in one fluid motion we were hurled backwards toward what felt like the edge of the universe, our hearts beating wildly as we prepared for certain death. Seconds later, he hit the brakes and the entire load went sliding off the back of the truck and into the pit. With the worst of things behind us, we let the air out of our lungs and stepped out onto solid ground. Our courage had been rewarded. We had made it to the dump.

Because our mom had not come with us, there was no one to caution us or tell us to be careful. Our dad liked looking through everyone else’s junk as much as we did, so he headed off in whatever direction seemed promising and we were left to navigate the terrain on our own. Modern-day child rearing experts would have pointed to this experience as a perfect example of how ‘doing dangerous things carefully’ builds confidence and resilience. Our mother would have had fits had she known. 

With billy goat agility, we made our way down into the pit, carefully stepping over rusty metal buckets and boards with spikes sticking out at precarious angles. We must have realized on some level that everything beneath our feet could shift or collapse without warning, but we were undeterred. We were adventurers in the truest sense, stepping over god-knows-what with eyes locked on whatever was just ahead of our tennis shoes. I think it was the randomness of things that made it feel as if finding almost anything was possible. Everything at the dump was free for the taking, which was right in line with an elementary school kids’ budget. Our eyes moved quickly as we assessed risk vs. reward. Half-buried treasure required a delicate touch as we worked to dislodge things that appeared to have potential. Sometimes the item seemed to be in great shape but, more often, fate had planted the better side up and hidden the broken parts. We’d toss the item aside and continue our quest, knowing that time was limited and that when Dad said, “Let’s go”, our foraging was done and we had 30 seconds to be back in the truck.

My biggest and best find over several years of traversing the dump was no ordinary junk. I can still see it laying on its side at the edge of the pit, its smooth turquoise paint unblemished. The raised silver letters shone in the midmorning sunlight – BROTHER. A sewing machine. I had found my very own sewing machine! We flagged my dad over to where we were, our triumphant shouts echoing off the sides of the pit. I had only just begun sewing in 4-H, but my limited knowledge of sewing machines told me that all the necessary parts were there. Even the foot pedal was there, which seemed like an unbelievable bonus. When my dad finally made it over to where we were standing, his eyes brightened and he smiled broadly. He picked it up, looked it over, then carried it back to the truck. I could hardly believe I had found something so valuable and was already imagining how excited my mom would be when she saw what we had brought home.

When my dad plunked the sewing machine down in the middle of our dining room table, my mom was not excited in the least. She was annoyed. But within minutes, my dad had discovered why it had landed in the dump. It was a simple loose wire that had made the previous owner think that it no longer worked, and my dad had it fixed in five minutes flat. My very own sewing machine. For free! I was elated and already planning all of the things I could make with this beautiful machine. It was probably for the best that I didn’t know how little aptitude my future self would have for sewing.

There’s a point in life when you realize that you’re no longer ashamed to admit to anyone other than your closest friends that you did not have a Walt Disney childhood. Things that you would have never shared previously suddenly feel like a badge of honor. For me, that age was 58. I was working as a paraprofessional at an elementary school and the stakes in the teachers’ lounge that day seemed fairly low. Conversations in that space seemed to jump from one topic to the next in rapid succession, with most of us wondering  ‘how did we get on this subject’ on a regular basis. Until that day, I thought our family was the only one that sifted through the dump in search of cast-off treasures. I was wrong. One of my favorite co-worker’s eyes lit up at the mention of the dump. For a split second, I got to travel back in time and meet ten-year-old Lori. Her face was animated as she recounted one particular trip to the dump when, to her absolute delight, she discovered loose pages of sheet music and Sunday School activity pages blowing all over the dump. Hundreds of them flying in every direction. I could see it as clearly as if I were standing right there beside her. I watched her face as she described running to catch as many of these fluttering, wind-blown treasures as her hands could hold. My bright-eyed friend could hardly contain her excitement at revisiting the memory. I completely understood how she felt. In stark contrast, the 20 and 30-somethings in the room were displaying a mixture of shock, disbelief, and the tiniest bit of disgust. I just smiled and said, “I guess you had to be there.”

As we talked about how much we had both looked forward to going to the dump as children, what struck me as remarkable was the amount of joy that we had both experienced in this completely unjoyful place. I think at least part of the joy (sewing machines and Sunday School fun pages aside) was the sense of unlimited possibility that we both felt as we rummaged through other peoples’ junk. It was food for the imagination at a time when we were starved for new experiences. I used to feel bad about missing out on childhood books that were a part of other kids’ memories, but I don’t anymore. I may not have grown up with the Little House stories or The Box Car Children, but I was living a parallel life of dangers and wonders without ever realizing it. In retrospect, it was a good trade-off.

Eventually, the government intervened in the late 1970s and closed the dumps, citing toxicity as the reason. A wise decision, in retrospect, as there was no oversight in terms of what could be thrown into the big pit. It was finally realized that simply covering the pit and its contents with dirt did not make all of this stuff magically disappear.

There’s a short window in childhood before we become aware of all the unseen hazards. Rarely does a day go by when I don’t think about microplastics, glyphosate in Cheerios, and the long-term effects of artificial sweeteners. It seems as though I am surrounded by snarling wolves and tasked with determining which ones have the sharpest teeth. It’s exhausting, but I don’t have the luxury of being nine anymore. I miss those years desperately. Some days, striking a balance between knowledge and wisdom is a heavy mental load. But it’s important, so I keep searching for reliable sources of information and try to leave my small patch of earth a little better than I found it.

Most importantly, those early years taught me to be curious and to hold my ground rather than cower when fear bites at my ankles. They showed me the value of letting your imagination run wild and that the best things in life involve risk. Bravery looks different now, but I remind myself on the tough days that I am the same person who despite being terrified, climbed into the truck, gripped the door handle, and waited out the slam of the brakes. I’m the same person who stepped over bedsprings and broken glass with more wonder than fear. I was, and still am, an adventurer.