Don’t invite the politicians into your space

Walk that mess over yonder somewhere, and let us all live in peace.

There is this faded blue container on my mother’s counter in the house I grew up and my folks still live in. Eight inches or so high, maybe three inches across, matching lid that seals pretty good. You’d assume it was a piece of old Tupperware or something, but actually it was part of some science kit toy something or another from my misspent youth. Used to have stickers on it, but they’ve long since worn off. For the last 20 years at least, it’s been where you would find it right this minute: To the right of the sink, by the paper towel roller, right up against the cabinet that marks the end of the countertop in the kitchen.

This is the scrap container. With no garbage service Up Yonder you don’t want rotting food sitting in the bags in the basement until Dad does his dump run, so into the slop bucket, small as it is, they go. From there, Mom, or a designated someone else, then “feeds the critters” by walking it down to the end of the road and throwing them over the hill, a far piece from the house. For those of you not living rurally in these here United States of America, that’s because the critters that get fed are not critters you want coming right up on the house. From the mostly harmless birds and chipmunks to the…