The publishing date for my first book, LARK RISING, is still a year away. So, before I begin the countdown, I'm musing on other things...
My town is filled with beautiful treasures--places to wander, sites to admire. This probably stretches credibility, but I consider our town dump to be one of those treasures. We have a service that picks up our weekly trash and recycling, and removes it to somewhere I don't know, but I still drop by our dump on occasion to recycle paper and such. I know, I know. It is not supposed to be called a dump; some far more sterile and official term is on the sign at the entrance. But I love the name 'dump', and I love calling this little spot off a winding road the 'Dump', just because it is so NOT a dump.
Here's why:
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The shed is neat as a pin; I swear you could picnic on site. It radiates order: the broom-swept floor, the set of tables with free items neatly laid out, the friendly old man who sits in his throne-positioned chair (behind me in this photo) and knows, after a formal exchange of greetings, exactly where you can dispose of your things ("Just drive up the hill a little ways, young lady, hang left, you'll see the green container...") and who likes to inspect all things added to the items table to make sure they are not junk (not junk!) and just in case he might want it for himself.
And look!!! It's like a little library in the back! Silence included!
Sometimes there is a person or two browsing the stacks. But I like it best when I'm the only visitor. I pull my car over to the side, get out, turn to the right, and this is what I see (and hear):
