Charles Schultz’ hippest Peanuts character was Pig Pen. We had much in common. I received the Pig Pen award after my first year working at the Lair of the Bear, in Pinecrest. A commentary on the state of my tent, it was nothing to be proud of. But I was 19 and dirt and I were on intimate terms.

We have Jim Pop to thank for that. When we bought the Lazy J out in Conn Valley, our weekends were filled with “trips to the dump.” I was nine, and what could be cooler than riding in a 1950 GMC pick up “in” to the dump. It was “in”, because our “ranch” was “out” past the dumps. (When Aunt Irene visited, Maggie told us to point left to distract Irene’s attention, so she wouldn’t see the dump on the right).

If Irene knew her family lived further “out” than the dumps, she would disown us. I didn’t get the connection, but wannabe snobs and nine year olds don’t always think alike.

The dump was out past Meadowood, less than a mile from the Trail. Multi-million dollar estates encircle it now. Few of the new neighbors even know it’s there.

Hauling, literally tons of trash, is not much fun. So Jim Pop let us do things a father might not ordinarily do. Our favorite, was taking empty wine or gin bottles and tossing them up in the air with one hand, and flinging another bottle at them with the other. We could do that for hours. It didn’t make for quick dump runs, but it made for a happy labor force.

He drew the line at letting us shoot rats with the 22. (My friends would pedal out from town on their bikes, 22’s across the handlebars just for that adventure). They were lucky. We were supposed to be working.

Mr. Huggins (or was it Mr. Mayfield?) ran the dump. They lived there in a little house at the entrance. They were a fabulous family—-respected by all. Their kids rode the school bus with us. Their story is one which has never been told. No doubt, they viewed the dump with a different eye.

The dump was so cool. I thought they were lucky. There were always neat treasures, old desks, antique metal steering wheels, ice boxes, typewriters, and weirdly shaped plastic vases to scavenge (to say nothing of a plethora of rats to shoot).

Daily, a constant plume of smoke rose skyward as the trash was burned. It could be seen from one end of the valley to the other. It had a distinctive odor.

The downside of being there didn’t occur to me until later. We were also completely oblivious to the ramifications that the family which ran the place was black—-one of the few black families in the Valley in those days.

That’s for another column.

Flinging trash from the back of a pickup over a ledge, and watching it cascade down the mountain of garbage—-hearing it clang and rattle—-hopefully breaking some glass before it came to rest, was a good as it gets. Throwing rocks at an old TV screen? Wow!

Kids love destruction.

Garbage became my life. At Cal, my Class “C” scholarship, allowed me to clean up the stadium after ball games. Everybody remembers “Al”, the overalls-clad supervisor who gave us our chores and kept track of our hours.

Being a freshman, I had to clean toilets, while the older guys got to sweep up garbage in the sunshine. I became a Pine-Toxxing fool.

I was able to take my gonnox skill to the Lair where I worked on maintenance and, surprise, surprise, spent my days cleaning toilets and washing dishes.

Fortunately, The Lair had even a better dump than St. Helena. The ground was so hard in the Sierra’s (we’d sometimes get stuck in the mud in Conn Valley), that we could “Lair dump”—-that is drive out about 25 yards from where we wanted to unload, put it in reverse—-floor it--until we hit the breaks and Sir Isaac Newton took over. The trash would fly out of the back like a Charlie Chaplin Movie.

One Summer I worked as a “wiper” in the engine room of the SS Oregon a Standard Oil Tanker (famed for cracking up in SF Bay and desecrating our beaches).

When I wasn’t wiping walls in the engine room (soogie), I used to haul five gallon cans of oil up to the main deck and empty them off the stern into the ocean. Try that today.

Another summer I hauled trash from a construction site in Honolulu. The dump was off a secret body surfing site, the best in Honolulu, called Ash Can)—-known only to locals—-and one Haoli garbage man.

No doubt my affinity for garbage aided me in my days on Madison Ave. Shoveling stuff most folks can’t tell from Shinola came naturally. Having no marketable skills, selling dirt (code for real estate) falls into the same category.

Still, it’s made for a good life.

The Dump has long since been covered over with dirt—-no attention paid to toxic concerns. Love Canal, anyone? Now we do it professionally with an almost sterile cut and fill operation up in Clover flats. It is better. Objects are recycled. Cardboard goes here—-ashes there, glass in this container, salvageables over there. We have a recycling center which is performing miracles.

It’s much better for the environment—-much better for all concerned—-except maybe the kids. The sound of glass shattering? It’s music to a kid’s ears. I do miss it.