Fond memories of childhood garbageman live on
My big boy cat had just finished testing eight of his nine lives when he jumped on the kitchen counter for the fourth time in a row. Flustered, and more than a little irritated because I was trying to make food, I channeled my mother from when I was 10 years old.
“Panther! I’m going to set you out for Mr. Morris!”
While talking to my cats and hoping they understand may be a subject for its own blog, the focus of this one is on the odd little saying at the end of that phrase. It’s a saying my mom made up when we were kids. Mr. Morris was our garbageman. So, when one of us would misbehave, my mom started jokingly saying that she was going to set one of us out for Mr. Morris (aka, I’m going to put you out with the trash, kid). It became something you’d say when you were getting frustrated with someone, but you were not mad.
In fact, I can’t believe anyone could use Mr. Morris’ name in a hateful statement. The man was as nice as they come, and as Pennsylvanian as you could get. Even his truck was cool. Few vehicles could elicit such excitement from two young boys as a big garbage truck climbing a country driveway toward the house. For my brother and me, it was a weekly event to see the largest truck we would see on the one-lane, private Skylark Drive that week. This was the arrival of Mr. Morris.
Morris the Man
His real name was James, and some people called him Jimmie. Most people knew him only as Mr. Morris, the guy from Claysville who picked up garbage curbside on rural routes. His Morris Sanitation was trademarked with a handmade sign calling the business name.
Mr. Morris also had a speech impediment, and it was bad. None of us could understand much of what he said to us. We surely never got every word, and it would be hard to describe how he tried to form them. I don’t know why he had that speech problem. I’m sure he would have wished it had not defined him. Sadly, it absolutely did.
Everything about Mr. Morris was somewhat classic, and somewhat static. His attire never wavered much. Always donning a pair of stained overalls, a dirty shirt with a pocket, and a grungy ballcap covering his balding head.
Because of his speech issues, none of us really got to know Mr. Morris in the 14 years he made weekly trips to our farm in Canton Township. But he loved my brother and me. He smiled wide and took time to pay attention to us. He was noticing more than I realized.
I thought of him as an older gentleman, and even my mom recently admitted she thought the same. As it turns out, he was one year older than my mom. Although Mr. Morris was not a Rhodes scholar, he also was not an idiot. Unfortunately, his sloppy presentation and unintelligible speech persuaded some to think otherwise.
Special Delivery
Mr. Morris pulled up to the house in his red 1970s Ford C-Series garbage truck. He later got a newer truck, but it was still a red Ford. The sides were high on the truck’s wooden bed, and its gate was little more than some 2x4s crossed over each other for a little bit of reinforcement. The garbageman’s routine was constant. He would get out of the driver’s side of the truck, walk around to the back, pick up our bags, and toss them into the back. If my brother and I were not standing there, Mr. Morris then would hop back in his truck and drive away. Otherwise, he would stay for a moment, and we would try to chat.
One day, he broke the routine when he pulled in front of the house. Instead of going around to the back, he came to the passenger side and opened the door. He leaned in and picked up two objects from the floor, before turning around and showing my brother and me. His grin was ear-to-ear.
My brother and I had a large pile of sand that we played in for hours during the summertime. It was better than a sandbox because it didn’t have strict boundaries, and we couldn’t hurt the box. Frequently, when Mr. Morris would pull up in the summer, my brother and I would be out playing in the sandpile. We practically lived in it, but I had no idea that Mr. Morris had noticed that.
The man my mom describes lovingly as a country bumpkin held two sets of toys to use in the sand pile. They included pails and shovels, and some other useful tools. He brought them for no particular reason other than to give something to us boys.
We were ecstatic, but I’m sure that we did not give Mr. Morris the appreciation he deserved for his gift. He retired from his sanitation business in 1994 and died at age 67 in 2007. It’s been more than 35 years since he gave us those toys, but I would like to thank Mr. Morris for his service, his kindness, and his gift of laughter. And thanks to my mom, we are still setting stuff out for him.
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