Out here in the country, we don’t have regular curbside trash service. Well, let me clarify that. There is a trash service, but you have to pay for it. Since we live one mile down a dirt road, by the time we haul our garbage and recycleables into the back of the Outback and down to the curb we figured we might as well just keep driving, skip the removal fee, and take them to what’s known as the “transfer station”, where debris of various sorts is taken, sorted, and then eventually hauled off to the landfill or recycling facilities.
Hubs created the recycling holding station pictured above for keeping our items out of the house (our pantry was getting some kind of crazy crowded with all manner of recyclables). Since almost every forest-dwelling predator imaginable shares the cove with us out here, he put a handled plank of wood on top to credit a barrier and deter easy access from marauding visitors of the four-footed persuasion. The gravel beneath each bin serves two purposes: it creates a weed barrier and it provides drainage to prevent water from pooling beneath the bins.
It’s awesome. Over the course of a few days, I squirrel away recyclable this’s and that’s in a canvas tote in the pantry. When it’s full, I schlep it outdoors and place items in separate bins for glass, metal, plastic, paper, and cardboard (which I jointly share with #5 recyclable items, accepted at our local Whole Foods).
As an order-seeking person, this appeals to me on so many levels. Things are tidy inside, and orderly outside, interluding in a sort of recycling purgatory until we fire up the Subaru and make our pilgrimage to the Transfer Station. I keep my sanity in check and my house orderly while our recyclables get a second lease on life. Win, win.