{Personal Essay} Waste Not, Want Not

Waste Not, Want Not

On more than one occasion in my life, I’ve watched my Dad eat something out of a public trash can.

I’ve seen him pull a jar of salsa out of the fridge, scrape the mold off of the top, and then pour it into a bowl to enjoy with his tortilla chips. I’ve watched him smell a container of two-week-old leftovers, make a face, and then proceed to eat it. I’ve watched him use many a food product with a sell-by date that has long since passed, and a coloring that is no longer what was intended.

My Dad is not one to waste.

In elementary school, I went to the school where he taught (and where he still teaches, 35 years later). Every time that I saw him rifling through the high school trash cans outside of his office door, I would die inside. He would reach in and pull out a brown paper lunch bag, an uneaten apple, a sandwich still in its Ziploc, a bag of chips—whatever he could find—and then he’d feast.

“Dad! What are you doing? Gross!” I would proclaim. But I was used to it at that point, and was just making a scene for anyone who might be watching so that they would know that I, unlike my father, was not a dumpster diver.

On family walks, my Dad often rifled through trash cans to pull out aluminum cans and glass bottles to recycle. When I think about him, the mental image that comes to mind always includes him holding something in his hands: a dog leash, a frisbee, a notebook, a cup of coffee, or a few cans rescued from a nearby public trash can.

Earlier this year, we attended my little brother’s college graduation in Greenville, South Carolina. When we arrived at the hotel, we were hungry—we’d all been traveling for a couple of hours, and it was almost dinnertime.

My husband and I had been upgraded to a suite, and were on a special floor for “VIPs.” My Dad, forever booking the cheapest option anywhere and everywhere, wanted to see what made our floor so special. As we showed off our extra amenities, we walked into the VIP lounge, where we would get a free buffet breakfast every morning.

At this point in the late afternoon, there was nothing but leftover coffee available in the lounge. Nothing, of course, except for the open box of pizza in the trash can—with one lone piece remaining in the very middle of the cardboard square. The slice had a small bite taken out of the very end of it, but otherwise, it appeared untouched.

I saw it sitting there, all by it’s lonesome, and I cringed. I knew that if my Dad saw it, there was no chance it would remain untouched—he had been very vocal about the fact that he was really hungry, after all.

My instincts were right.

As soon as he spotted it, my Dad reached into the trash can, pulled out the slice, ripped off the tip where someone else had taken a bite, and then proceeded to eat the slice of pizza. I would like to say that I was horrified, but honestly, when it comes to my Dad, I passed horrified years ago.

My Dad hates wasting money almost as much as he hates wasting food. He’s been known to “shop” in the Lost & Found at the end of the school year. He’ll stop on the side of the road to check out an item in someone’s trash pile, and I recently caught him wearing my brother’s old jeans from early high school—some wide-legged carpenter jeans—you know, the ones with the loop for the hammer on the leg.

At one point when he was younger, my Dad had a car that my Mom called his “Fred Flinstone Car,” because the floorboards had rusted straight through, and you could see the ground underneath his feet when he drove.

He drove another car—one that he had for much of my childhood—until it would only go backwards, in reverse. He called the junkyard and asked them how much he could get for a car that doesn’t drive forward anymore, and the junkyard said that if he could get it to them, they’d pay him $80 for it. My poor dad, who hates to waste, attempted to drive the car in reverse to the junkyard!  It was to no avail—he ended up having to pay a tow truck to take that car away. And that’s not the only car he’s driven until it would no longer function.

If it isn’t obvious, my Dad not only hates to waste, he also simply doesn’t care about appearances.

Although I spent much of my adolescence being utterly embarrassed by his lack of self-consciousness (his loud singing while in line at the grocery store, his purple socks worn with Tevas and an embroidered Indian vest, his rusty cars, and the PB&J’s he’d bring to the mall—in a cooler—to save money at the food court), the lessons that my Dad’s actions taught me have stayed with me as the feelings of horror have faded.

He taught me not to waste and to take care of the earth. He showed me that you should be yourself, embrace your creative urges, and let your light shine no matter where you are. He taught me that you don’t need a nice car to be happy, that experiences are more important than things, and that having a Dad who is around, one who takes you to the mall, who drives you to school, who comes to your concert (even while wearing purple socks and a vest), is way more important than having one who is well-dressed or blends in with the crowd.

Although my mental images of my Dad are often of him with a rescued slice of pizza or a sweatshirt from the Lost & Found in his hand, he’s also laughing, smiling, telling me that he loves me, that he supports me, and that he’s there for me.

Dumpster diver or not, the fact that he’s always been there—that he’s never wasted any time not being a father—is what makes the biggest impact. And at least I know that I’ll never have to worry about him going hungry...

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