“G” is for garbage

HAPP-ENINGS | MICHAEL HAPP - PUBLISHER

Growing up, there were few things that I hated more than when my dad told my brother and I that it was time to go and pick up trash.

Sure, I cared about the planet, and on Earth Day when my classmates, the rest of the school, and I would plod around Palmer picking up garbage, the activity was fun. We got out of school, and they fed us hot dogs afterwards. However, when my dad hitched up that little old rusted out wagon to the back of the four-wheeler and we started down the gravel road west of our house, our friends were long gone and there were no hot dogs in sight.