Trash Cans:
An Excavation of Family as Midden Heap
(Part 3 - Grandma)

Grandma’s trash can perched between her daughters in a rose-flowered housedress, rolled-down stockings, and sensible black shoes. I felt guilty opening her elder lid as she was always so discreet and proper. Hidden in mounds of glutinous peelings from the red-skinned potatoes she prepared every night for dinner, no matter what Mother was serving, were hairnets and tissues, croqueted afghans, Art Linkletter, African violets, pillow candies, widow hands that had washed and cooked to keep five children together, Lawrence Welk, Sergeant Schultz, and a fluttery syncopated heart. Deep in her Germanic core, a buried Mother Tongue choked on its diphthongs.