Spring Cleaning

A short recollection about my favorite season.

One of the things I’d learned in my sixteen years on Earth was that the number of people who promised to show up when they were needed was greatly disproportionate to the number who actually did. This was true whether we were borrowing money for the KUB bill or asking relatives to fix our beat-up Mercury Topaz, and it was especially true the day Dr. Jenny implored her patients to spend a Saturday morning picking up garbage along Oak Ridge Highway. 

Dr. Jenny, our chiropractor, was plenty weird but still likable. Mom, Sissy, and I had varying degrees of success with treatment, but we were no more or less odd than Dr. Jenny’s average patient. Even though two of her usual customers could fit into one pair of my pants, I felt comfortable among the wan, patchouli-scented health nuts who flocked to her office. 

Dr. Jenny had recently pledged to keep a stretch of Oak Ridge Highway free from litter as part of the national Adopt-a-Mile program. She tacked a sign-up sheet on her bulletin board and asked each patient pointedly if we wanted to volunteer. Lots of patients were interested. I was no stranger to litter campaigns, having participated in the local River Rescue in years past, so I was enthusiastic. Sissy volunteered, too, and Mom joined just in case Dr. Jenny decided to throw in a free adjustment for participating. 

The morning of the clean-up, Mom drove us to Dr. Jenny’s office. We arrived to a mostly empty parking lot. Despite her other patients’ initial excitement, we were the only ones who’d kept our word. 

Dr. Jenny invited us in. A TV and VCR were set up in the waiting room.  

“The Adopt-A-Mile program sent me this tape to play before we start our clean-up,” she said. “Let’s take a look.” 

Watching TV with my chiropractor in an empty office was weird. It was like we’d invited her over for dinner because she was alone on Thanksgiving or something. Still, I felt bad for her. She was a Michigan transplant and new to Karns, trying to make a name in the community. 

Banjo music blared fuzzily from the TV. The Oak Ridge Boys – or maybe Alabama, who looked exactly the same to me – greeted us heartily. They were grateful we’d decided to donate our time to help Tennessee stay beautiful. After all, they had driven through Tennessee multiple times on tour over the years, and The Oak Ridge Boys or Alabama knew what a problem litter was on the roadways. 

My mind drifted as the bass singer read off a list of statistics about trash in our state. I hoped Mom would take us to Weigel’s for a french vanilla cappuccino when we were done. Today was going to stay damp and chilly. March was an unpredictable month for Knoxville weather.  

I pictured putting a cup under Weigel’s cappuccino spigot and pressing the button to dispense the hot beverage. The manager had pasted a sign on the machine admonishing customers to release the button when one’s cup was two-thirds of the way full, but I liked to live dangerously. I knew I could keep pushing for exactly four seconds after the recommended release and still have enough room for three packets of sugar. Weigel’s had created a rich, creamy, 89-cent masterpiece, even surpassing the turtle cappuccino at Old City Java. I was hooked. 

“Are they gonna sing “Elvira” or what?” Mom suddenly interrupted. 

“We can skip the rest of the tape,” said Dr. Jenny, bored as the rest of us. “Why don’t we get going?” 

We got back into our car and followed Dr. Jenny down Oak Ridge Highway, passing the Bargain Barn and the E-Z Stop gas station before turning left into the Food Lion across the street from Grace Baptist. From there, we took pickers and bags from her trunk and carefully jogged to the other side of the road. 

“Do we have to stay together?” I asked Mom. 

She thought for a moment. “No,” she said finally, “but don’t you dare get your ass run over.” 

This was the kind of laissez-faire and marginally effective parenting I’d experienced my whole life. Miraculously, I was still alive. 

The four of us started together and then broke off in opposite directions. Sissy remembered to bring her no-name Walkman; I was stuck with my thoughts and the sound of muffler-free trucks barreling down the highway. 

Despite the noise, I fell into a peaceful rhythm. Cleaning up litter was extremely satisfying. My heart grew lighter with each old soda bottle or soft drink straw that disappeared into my garbage bag. After a while, Sissy’s bag was as full as mine, and I caught her eye as she nodded her head in time to Pantera or whatever was playing. She raised her picker triumphantly, and I returned the salute.  

  I wondered why no one else had volunteered. The patchouli patients loved Dr. Jenny, always slopping sugar over how much her treatments helped them and buying whatever homeopathic tincture she recommended. 

Being a visible presence for her when they didn’t have to, though, seemed almost as important to me. I wanted to think the best of the patchouli patients, like maybe they were too anemic from their meatless diets to sling full garbage bags, but I suspected it was more.  

Janitors, garbage collectors, and carrion understood one of life’s most unfair axioms – their jobs were among the least respected but the most important. Deep down, most people thought it beneath them to clean up other people’s crap. I knew this was the real reason we were the only ones there. Poor folks like us were already used to digging through whatever was left for a myriad of reasons.  

But leftovers didn’t scare us. In fact, sometimes we found treasure among the trash. 

Though we had more ground to cover with only the four of us there, I was glad we’d shown up. I was confident Dr. Jenny appreciated it, too, possibly even enough to mention it in her next Xeroxed newsletter.  

I unfurled the extra garbage bag I’d stuffed in my flannel shirt’s pocket and shook it open. A car horn tooted a friendly thanks as it drove past fast enough to puff the bag out of my hands. Luckily, I caught it on the edge of my picker. 

“You’re welcome!”  I yelled sarcastically, but I wasn’t mad. Not everyone was equipped to create new beginnings. Crushed under the faded Funyuns bags and discarded Pennzoil bottles were tiny spring buds waiting to be greeted by the sun. We were no less than the hands of God this morning, two soggy teenagers and a broke middle-aged mom, clearing roadblocks and unearthing potential.