August 1999

The First Family is vacationing in Skaneateles this week, their activities scheduled by knowledgeable individuals. But one wonders if they are going to miss a glimpse of the real Skaneateles. Before leaving, will they gather their trash and drive to the Transfer Station?

Indeed, since neither the Town nor the Village of Skaneateles provides residents with weekly garbage or recycling pick-up, they must hire a private service or bear the consequences of their consumption upon their own shoulders. Many chose the latter path, driving out Old Seneca Turnpike to the Transfer Station, a.k.a. "the dump," one of Skaneateles' central bonding experiences.

Here you see residents work with the practiced precision of a drill team. Young couples bring the trash from Granny's camp, as their parents did before them. Wives sit in cars while their husbands do the honors, or husbands sit waiting for wives. Neighbors say hello, and people bump into old friends they haven't seen for years.

The trash itself is hauled in every variety of motor vehicle. Family sedans, vans and SUV's descend in flocks, but finer garbage has been know to arrive in a BMW or Mercedes. The Dump is a great social leveler.

At the first building, residents -- who have secured the necessary sticker from the Town office -- off-load their junk mail, corrugated cardboard, and garbage (in clear plastic bags to discourage cheating). Traffic is brisk and while you're hoisting your bags over the retaining wall, two or three other cars may pull in behind you. This is not a stop for the slow or faint of heart, especially in the summer when the heat conspires to amplify the medley of aromas.

Hopping back into your car, you motor down to a series of tractor-trailers, back doors open to receive your carefully sorted recycling -- glass, newspaper, clear plastic, cloudy plastic, plain cardboard, metal cans and gable-top waxed cartons. Some people sort their stuff all week and bring an already ordered collection of containers, moving methodically and swiftly; others have thrown everything into one box and must sort as they go, wandering about like hot-dog vendors at a ball game flinging a can here, a box there.

Some expend a minimum of effort and drop their items over the white plywood retaining walls. Others go for the cathartic pleasure of whipping plastic bottles and tin cans as far back into the truck as they can, zinging can lids like Frisbees, reveling in the clash of tin or the roar of a juice container hitting the rear wall and causing a clear plastic avalanche.

Dogs love the dump and prefer to arrive in the passenger seat of a pick-up. From these heights, Labradors and Goldens sagely observe the activity, with a special interest in the comings and goings of their masters. More playful breeds, however, prefer to sit quietly in wait for an unwary recycler passing by their window and then bark so loudly as to inspire an answering yelp of surprise.

Music also contributes to the soundscape. Rock & Roll can be heard from many cars, but some visitants prefer the gentle counterpoint of classical or a crooner. Still others like to work to something more stirring, like bagpipes playing a martial air.

After recycling comes the metals area, where you can drop off wire, pots and pans, screen doors, aluminum siding, even an oscilloscope if you've got one. Grass clippings and weeds form a series of mounds in the nearby compost area, and then it's on to the Swap Shop.

"Bring Something In, Take Something Away" is the philosophy here, and there's a lot of bringing and taking. Amidst the skis, skates, furniture, clothing, small appliances, cups and glasses, one can find many serviceable items. There are no warranties offered, but people are willing to take a chance since the price is right. One gentleman was recently overjoyed to find a large-screen color TV in the original box. Wrestling the prize to his car, he shouted out, "Look, Mom, look!" The fact that he was already drunk at 8:30 a.m. made the occasion all the merrier.

Others hunt for smaller treasures among the books. Recent finds, sifted from musty mounds of texts and 1950's inspirational literature, have included a copy of the Mutiny on the Bounty trilogy with illustrations by N.C. Wyeth, a 1943 edition of Richard Tregaskis' Guadalcanal Diary and an autobiography of golfer Champagne Tony Lema, with a swell photo of Tony and his wife drinking sparkling wine in a San Francisco restaurant.

Last year a newcomer was introduced to the manager of the Transfer Station, and asked the overall-clad gentleman if he was indeed the lord of all he surveyed. The manager replied, "Yes, I am the Lord of the Flies." When a dump comes with literary allusions, it should be no surprise that it attracts the finest sort of visitors.