Advice for Life: Repurpose!

By Shana Jarrett, Sagle, Idaho

As appeared in

Even for a county dump, the pile behind the shed that served as my office was turning into an eyesore.

I’d been tossing things back there since summer, when I started working at the Garfield Bay dump here in the Idaho panhandle.

Things that seemed too good or too interesting to send to a landfill—a wooden ladder with a loose step, a shovel, rusted pieces of metal, an old shipping crate.

But that had been four months ago. Winter would be here soon and the pile wasn’t getting any smaller. People were beginning to notice, and I didn’t need that kind of attention. I needed this job.

I pulled out a long piece of wood from the pile, about eight inches wide. I hate to throw things away. I’m certain I’ll find a use for them someday.

That’d been the hardest part about working at the dump. I couldn’t believe what people tossed day after day, without thinking twice about it. But now, even I couldn’t remember what I’d found intriguing about this piece of wood.

Maybe this wasn’t the perfect fit for me. But I was closing in on 60. It’s not like I had a lot of choices. I’d have to make do. Not every job can be the kind that puts a spring in your step.

Once I’d had a good career as a supervisor with Airwest Airlines. Then Republic bought Airwest. My job got relocated. I didn’t want to move so I quit. I’d find something else, something better, I figured.

I’d had so many jobs since then. Laundromat attendant. That’s what I’d done before this. Caregiver. House sitter. Store clerk. Ticket sales. Dog groomer. I couldn’t remember them all. Some I’d liked. Some I hadn’t. In the end, none of them worked out. That was a bitter blow, knowing I was expendable.

I kept searching for something that would make me feel good about myself. I’d asked God to point me in the right direction. But I still didn’t know which way to turn. My GPS—God Positioning System—felt all out of whack.

That’s why I’d been okay with working at the dump. If you could look past the bins, it was actually kind of pretty, surrounded by evergreens, the lake nearby. I had plenty of time to myself, time to sit in my shed, watch the birds, listen to Diana Krall CDs and wonder where life would take me next.

I plucked some old rusted saw blades out of the pile and arranged them on the piece of wood, playing with an idea. A truck pulled in, the bed loaded with trash bags. I waved at the driver, hoping he wouldn’t look too hard at my junk pile.

I knew the regulars by now. Sometimes we talked about the weather or how the fish were biting. Or what was happening in town. Nothing too deep, but in a strange kind of way the dump was common ground for everyone.

My thoughts were jarred by a ruckus at my bird feeders—nothing fancy, just some discarded hub caps I’d recycled and set on the ground by the shed. An intruding squirrel had sent a flock of chickadees into a tizzy.

“It’s okay,” I said. “There’s enough for everyone.”

Birds, I thought. Maybe that’s why I’m here. To feed the birds.

One of my first days at the dump I’d noticed a few chickadees singing and fluttering right outside the shed window. I’ve never been much of a bird person. But they had been insistent, almost as if they were trying to tell me something. Or maybe they just liked Diana Krall. Either way, I couldn’t get their lively serenade out of my head, and the next day I put out some seed.