Confessions of a Dumpster Diver

Dumpster diving is nothing new. It is an ancient art form practiced throughout the ages much like sculpting, painting and digging ditches. A form of archeology restricted to the urban environment.

My introduction to the wonder of this leisurely pursuit, which in fact some have profaned by transforming it into a socialistic endeavor, began at the age of 8 in Chicago. Ash pits, the predecessor of the modern day dumpster, dotted the landscape of the alleys. These 4’x4’x4’ concrete boxes with a cast iron top hatch and a equally impressive iron door at the bottom, alley side, were ideally suited as fortification while engaging the enemy in a game of war. The ash pits were no longer used for ashes, but for household trash and even at that age, we soon learned that we were up to our armpits in treasures. Refundable soda bottles, bowling balls pitched in fits of frustration and rage, baby buggy wheels and roller skates to be used on carts and scooters and of course if we were super lucky an occasional girlie magazine.

In 1968 I met up with the ultimate dumpster diver, Ed . I was stationed at an Air Force base in Tennessee and Ed, a civilian, worked in the an engineering shop with me. In between job assignments Ed showed a passion for diving into the big commercial dumpsters behind the barracks. Military personnel have an aversion to lugging items from duty station to duty station, so they pitch some fantastic treasures. Radios, tape players, clothing, you name it; they chuck it. Ed wouldn’t just hang over the side, he would jump in. Things would fly up in the air. He was especially ecstatic when he would find a box of love letters to the girl back home discarded by a G.I. who was moving on and had no further use for them or found that his duffle bag was already loaded with more important items.

It is easier to forage through the modern day dumpster. Everything is pretty much in plain sight and easy reach. I once opened a dumpster to find a beautiful porcelain teapot decorated as a little house at the very top of the heap. More than likely the treasure was a gift from a mother-in-law and tossed by a soon to be a hauled over the coals husband. On another fortunate occasion I found a table lamp armed with a light bulb that worked. I had been searching high and low for this exact size, color and shape of lamp. And with the advent of bulk pickup, a cornucopia of riches await all who dare the adventure.

Of course, I still need a citified escort when I search for the treasures of the city. Although I have lived in the city, worked for the city, I still bear the stigma of being a tourist. I can’t answer that one prevalent question concerning my high school days.