I’ve been trying to figure out what it is that is so fascinating about my nearly two-year-old grandson’s obsession with garbage trucks. Of all the big rigs, work trucks, fire trucks, excavatorsand books about trucks I’ve sent him, his favorite, most beloved one is the refuse truck. Oops, excuse me, the “trash truck.”
Yes, I get that they are big and make a lot of noise and cause a lot of commotion. But to choose it over all others?
I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that in the thick heat of a Beaufort August morning, I pushed him up and down my neighborhood’s alleys, following a few hundred feet behind one.The smell was like a dragon with bad breath breathing into your face. But, oh man, his grin, the way he bounced up and down in his stroller, yelling, “more, more, more,” made me laugh with the joy of it all.
This little guy has not yet learned that in the great hierarchy of trucks, the trash truck sits pretty near the bottom of the heap.
I know something about this because I’ve spent decades writing about them. Among over-the-road truckers, race car hauling ranks at the top and log and chicken hauling at the bottom. And work trucks like refuse trucks? They don’t get much respect.
My grandson doesn’t know any of this.
He doesn’t know which truck is cooler, more prestigious or harder to drive. He doesn’t know which one he is supposed to want.
He just loves the trash truck.
One day, he probably won’t, just as his older cousin is no longer obsessed with the mail truck.Somewhere along the way, they will learn the hierarchy. Some things are cooler. Some more desirable. And eventually, they will admire the heck out of a big rig hauling shiny race cars down the highway.
When did this happen to me?
When did I stop enjoying things for the fun of it?
I used to love making a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich and eating it with salty chips and an icy Coke. But alas, even lunch food has a hierarchy. Near the top is an organic kale salad topped with berries and nuts. Down at the bottom, rolling around with the chicken haulers, is my beloved grilled cheese.
The grilled cheese hasn’t changed, but now, I can practically see a nutritional label floating over the frying pan and I know I shouldn’t want it.
Take how much I used to love fireworks. Nothing was more exciting than my dad coming home with sparklers and a lighter. We would run around the yard at night, twirling fire through the air until it burned down to our fingertips. Now, it’s hard to be impressed by city fireworks once you’ve seen national ones and elaborate drone shows are making ordinary fireworks seem old-fashioned. A lowly sparkler can hardly keep up with all that.
Which is why I envy my grandson’s sense of wonder. Nothing is ranked yet. Nothing has a label. He just knows what delights him.
Surely, in the space between trash trucks and race cars, there is something lost. Some innocent ability to feel pleasure before knowing better.
“More, Mimi, more trash truck, please, “he tells me on FaceTime, putting his fists together so he can both sign and plead aloud for the object of his admiration.
Me too.
I want lots more trash truck for him. I hope the joy of it lasts as long and sweetly as possible.
