Reflections Of A Dump Picker

Between our village and the main town was an unused, former swamp, piece of land. As the story goes (handed down by my mother), a husband and wife aeronautical team, “The Flying Mollisons” landed at Stratford Airport one fine day, causing the good citizens of Stratford to promptly re-name the strip “Mollison Airport,” in an effort to bring themselves some fame.

“They didn’t actually make it to the airport,” Mom said. “They sort of crash-landed short of the runway.” I think that means they landed in what is now, and might have been then, the town dump. Not really sure about that.

The town could have called it “The Mollison Dump,” if that were the case. You get your publicity where you can, because these days it’s a rather handsome park, although there are vents all over the place to release the methane being generated underneath.

I spent a lot of time there in my wasted youth. People threw out all sorts of usable things which went very well in my part of the cellar. You just never knew what you would find and my parents never knew what I would come home with. But it was good junk and I held onto it for years.

During the day, it was filled with seagulls; at night, the eyes of a thousand rats reflected my headlights. Occasionally, a cop would be at the top of the hill trying to catch us picking, but I’d outfox him every time.