PaperWork: Thinking about that crumb trail I leave behind each day

Every week I drag part of my life story to the curb.

Want to know more about me? Then join me at the end of my driveway on Tuesday night. That’s when I roll out a large trash container, often with only one tightly closed plastic bag. (“How embarrassing,” my wife jokes. “We’re not making enough garbage.”)

Wednesday is garbage day. It waits at the curb. Someone else’s problem now. Ha. But there’s more to it than that.

Like I said, those containers tell a story. You could rip into that white bag with the red tie wrap and learn little secrets. (Our fruit of choice is often the banana. And all those coffee grounds are telling.)

But that recycle bin offers the easy viewing. What kind of cereal we eat and that white water we drink as “milk” and the favorite wines. (Please don’t count the bottles over the holidays.)

Hey, every good detective finds revealing clues in the trash can. What you see is the detritus of our life.

There, I said it. Detritus. It feels good to let it out. I love that word, especially the sound of it. Say it with me now: duh-tri-tuhs. And I’m going to confess right now that this column was just an excuse to use the word. It was inevitable.

Many writers have used the word in clever ways. It’s an intelligent almost magical way to say “garbage” or “trash.” The yuck of life. The crumbs we leave behind. Writers love to play with the word.

Like American novelist Valerie Martin who wrote: “A trip to the attic is an excursion into history, and ... all over the world the present unravels beneath the stored detritus of the past; that’s what attics are for."

Or J.K. Rowling writing mysteries as Robert Galbraith: “... it was the ghost of Lula herself who emerged, gazing up at him, as victims of violent crimes sometimes did, through the detritus of their interrupted lives."

While playing with this word I’ve come to realize I should turn detective and learn from the stuff I throw away.

There’s the little things. Like maybe I ate too many little Kit Kat bars before supper. I counted the wrappers. Then I shoved them deeper into the garbage. (Come on, come on ... you can’t tell me you’ve never hidden “evidence” in the trash bin.)

Or bigger things. Like all those award plaques and certificates I collected over the years, stored under the stairwell. I finally tossed them. (I did take photos ... that I have never looked at since.) Each was important at the time. But that’s the rub. Time. It tends to turn many things into detritus.

So my days are full of detritus. The stuff left behind ... in my wake. It’s more than candy wrappers. It’s wrong words spoken at the wrong time, hurt feelings and lots of decisions – good or bad. Friends left behind, shoes I refuse to throw away, even toast crumbs from breakfast.

They all have one thing in common. Me. They speak of me. Tiny pieces of my life, my routine, are scattered about. Anyone tracking me would have more than crumbs to follow.

The detritus in my life is definitely part of my story. All the stuff I throw away or let fall along the trail versus the stuff I keep and display. All important.

Sorry. I’ve dragged you through all my garage. And for what? Well, how about this? Have some fun today with your detritus. Look around. What kind of crumb trail did you leave? You might be surprised.

By the way. I’m writing this on Tuesday. You know what that means, right?

Tonight I will haul to the curb a week’s worth of ... say it with me ... detritus.

• Lonny Cain, retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa, also was a reporter for The Herald-News in Joliet in the 1970s. His PaperWork email is lonnyjcain@gmail.com. Or mail The Times, 110 W. Jefferson St., Ottawa, IL 61350.