I returned to Tennessee Tuesday after a long weekend visiting my dad at his nursing home. My dad’s complex and the surrounding town are thoroughly spiffy and spotless, as is the entire state of Kansas. The people who prefer Germany to Italy (“Who cares about old churches crammed with art? Germany is so clean you can eat food off the sidewalk!”) generally love Kansas. In Kansas, the pavement-dining potential is astronomical.
In Tennessee, it ain’t. When I walk dogs in my neighborhood I make a point of picking up trash along the way to the park and back. After four and a half days out of state, I could tell no one had taken up the slack in my absence.
We had empty Dasani, soda, liquor, and drug bottles. We had dirty shirts, dirty linen, dirty diapers. Most of this stuff was within 20 feet of the nearest trashcan. When I walk the dogs, I find it simple to swoop by, scoop up the trash, and drop it in the next can along the way. Was there no one walking down this street while I was gone who could have done the same?
I admit that I do feel superior about public service I perform for this neighborhood, and why shouldn’t I? My god, the trashcans are sitting there in public view. What am I supposed to do next, follow these people into their bathrooms and wipe their asses for them when they’re done?
“Can you help me here, buddy, I can’t seem to find my butt.”
“It’s in the middle of your body, towards the back, right there.”
“Whuh?”
“Right there, in the back.”
“I can’t find it.”
“OK, go to your belly button.”
“Whuh?”
“In the middle, in the front.”
“This thing?”
“Right, that’s it. Now go around to the back.”
“Like this?”
“Yeah. Now go down to where your legs split apart.”
“Right there?”
“That’s it! That’s where you wipe.”
“What do I wipe with?”
So if Kansas is America’s Germany, does that make Tennessee its Italy? Well, we haven’t got the art, but with entertainment like this, who needs it?
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