Maybe it’s not quite the single most nightmarishly annoyingly painful task I’ve ever been subjected to, but taking out the garbage has always bothered me. When my father was still alive we used to do it together each week. As a general rule, the garbage men in Wyoming, Pennsylvania show up during the very early hours of each Wednesday morning. That meant that every Tuesday afternoon, no matter what the weather was like, I’d always be expected to get all the last of the bags garbage together, from each room of the house, to take them out into the garage, after having already taken out several full white plastic garbage bags during the course of each week, and to make sure that all the white bags got put into much larger dark green bags in order that they may be conveniently be put out onto the curb in time for Wednesday morning. I could usually fit three or four into each large bag. It’s such a physically taxing job in the sense that things have a tendency to feel even heavier than they really are for someone after he has spent a significant length of time constantly picking up weights. Besides that there’s the unpleasant smell of old food combined with the boredom of such a dreaded chore. Bags always have to be closed as well as possible for fear that birds, rodents and other animals will be able to tear them open either overnight or during the early morning. Along with the normal garbage, there are all sorts of other distinctions too that must be observed in order to keep things running smoothly. Newspapers have to go out separately twice a month. Recyclable materials are done separately. Neither cold weather, a dark and gloomy night, nor precipitation qualifies as an excuse to avoid any of this either. A concrete garage, on a bad day, may feel like quite a depressing environment but duty still calls.