Garbage in, garbage out there

That’s not mine, I took it from my psycho cousin during the intervention

It was a classic case of bad timing, those bitter cold high winds we had last week, with those nasty gusts thrown in for good measure.

You do not want Mother Nature in Big Bad Wolf mode — “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down” — on the day you have to put your trash and recycling at the side of the road.

Yes, most of our houses, condos, townhomes, and apartment buildings are still standing, even the ones built in the 1600s. You don’t get to be a 350-year-old house by collapsing every time a little windstorm blows through town. We’ve been withstanding high winds ever since our first recorded hurricane, in 1635, which some townies still remember.

But our garbage and recycling bins are another matter.

Under the law, you must have your trash and recycling bins at the curb by 6 a.m. on pickup day. But the trucks might not reach your specific address till the end of the day.

Meanwhile, here comes the wind.

The stronger the wind, the likelier to find your bin rolling toward Rowley, slinging your scraps all over the street.

One fundamental fact of garbage is that this is stuff you don’t want. In some cases you also don’t want people to know you had it in the first place.

And you sure don’t want it inventoried in the pages of the Ipswich Local News.

Since last week’s high-velocity weather system, I’ve learned so much about my neighbors. Especially those upwind of me.

The bin blows over, the stuff spills out. Trash and recyclables, scrupulously separated not long ago in someone’s kitchen, crash into each other on the asphalt.

AARP junk mail takes wing. A half-crushed aluminum can, minus its Michelob, comes bouncing down the lane — tink, ternk, toink. Snickers wrappers and ketchup bottles and the plastic box a Market Basket Gigante Bean Saladcame in all go scraping and skittering along.

The wind bloweth where it listeth, as Jesus said, and your pregnancy test kit is prancing down Pleasant Street.

Also, here’s a biodegradable egg carton that should have been composted.

And look, one of our neighbors still subscribes to Reader’s Digest.

Who the heck smokes Marlboros?

Hm, birthday party. All pink, all princess, all plasticware. Pity.

Wow, look at this. He’s got even worse cholesterol than me.

Oops, who threw out this dirty underwear? That’s against the rules. (Textiles — cleaned, dried, and bagged — must be dropped in one of the special boxes at Town Hall, the transfer station, or any Ipswich school.)

Fortunately, most windblown trash can’t be traced to its owner. Sure, I can tell you what the folks in that split-level are paying for cable (morons!), but to identify that dirty-drawers delinquent would require a DNA test, which I am simply not prepared to pay for.

I can’t tell you how to protect your secrets on windy garbage days, but I will share one surefire solution.

Don’t bother to look at the forecast to see when the wind will be highest. Don’t even tug on your garbage bin to estimate what it will take to blow it over.

Just drag the bin to the street, push cinderblocks into position all around it, and watch through your front window for the garbage truck to approach.

Then run out, pull the cinderblocks away, thank the praiseworthy trash collectors, and take your freshly emptied bin back to where it lives.

No, you didn’t miss work. You called in sick this morning at 6.

Yes, technically, it’s dishonest. But it’s either that or your Preparation H goes for a joyride.