Complications

When I was a kid, there was a whole field of gladiolus on the other side of the little woods behind our house. I remember the bright spread of color that happened once a year, such a treat. The same narrow road led to the Monsanto plant less than a mile away. They were a major employer in the area in those days, and also a source of the black sooty stuff that sometimes collected on our windowsills. The biggest attraction, however, and much more interesting to a child than a spectacular explosion of color, was the plastics dump at the end of an anonymous dirt side road. We were allowed to go there, which is mind-boggling, and it was fabulous to poke through all the bits and pieces of discarded plastic slag. Sometimes we might find an entire cup, but mostly the treasure was melted globs and pools of soft malleable stuff that we would poke with long sticks and stir around and around. It made a wonderful plopping sound. We picked the wild blueberries that lined the road to the dump, and ate them by the quart. Nobody knew any better back then, or if they did, they weren't telling.