The Value of BMS*

(*Not an accepted acronym for anything I know of and not affiliated with Bristol Myers, batter manufacturers, or any bowel syndrome. Especially the last one.)

When my kids were little, they sometimes struggled with fears in their darkened bedrooms, all the scary things that go bump in the night–ghosts, goblins, and any other irrational fear that might rear its ugly, imaginary head. This, of course, was long before we knew that monsters might actually be good, possibly even funny like Mike Wazoski and Sully. They were all Randall.

On the advice of a friend, we bought a can of Glade and re-fashioned it with a handwritten label. No longer an air freshener, it became Bug and Monster Spray, with a lovely lilac scent. Poof! went the monsters and creepy-crawly things populating their darkened bedroom. Tears and fears vanished! Sleep reigned supreme once again.

I had childhood fears, as I’m sure we all did. One must have penetrated deeply into my psyche because I still dream of it on occasion. But it wasn’t a daytime fear. Oh no, this one plagued me in the brilliant sunshine of summer days.

When my parents took the kids up to our mountain cabin outside Mariposa, it was pretty basic. Okay, very basic. “Rustic” would be too kind a word for the structure. The water pumped from a well at the end of the driveway. When we graduated from outhouse to indoor bathroom, the rule was well-established. If it’s yellow, let it mellow; if it’s brown, flush it down. Crudely stated maybe, but the goal was to save water. Winter was warmed by a cast-iron kitchen stove and, summer was cooled by nothing at all.

There was certainly no garbage pick-up, no recycling bins to wheel near the road. We contained our trash in brown paper bags situated next to the fridge full of generic brands of beer, cream soda, and various flavored colas. Once or twice, maybe three times a weekend the trash had to be run up the hill. I didn’t contribute much to the upkeep, so I was often designated the runner. “Take this to The Pit,” were the five words which made me shudder.

Yes, The Pit, in capital letters. It was a formal place with a special name. Sort of like Hell. Or Cleveland.

The Pit sat at the top of a small hill. The circular hole was maybe ten feet deep and about ten feet across. To my young eyes, it was more like five hundred feet deep and a quarter mile across. The Pit was guarded by a ramshackle fence, three rows of rusted barbed wire mounted on shaky wooden posts.

Gripping the paper bag, I would slowly climb the bunny hill, edging closer and closer to the side. I peered over the side, making sure no animals had fallen in, or worse yet, were ready to pounce on my tender flesh. I also tested the ground, making sure it was secure and my foot wouldn’t slip under the fence.

Assuming all was clear within and around The Pit, I backed up a few feet and prepared to launch. The trick was to gain momentum but not too much. I needed enough forward force to toss the bag and clear the barbed wire. But too much energy would throw my body into the barbed wire, sending me “ass over teakettle” as my dad used to say. I imagined my body spread eagle at the bottom of The Pit, criss-crossed with wire and drowning in garbage. And most likely, animals would come finish me off.

Each trip up the hill was a delicate dance with death. Each trip down was a private celebration but always with the realization that the next brown bag was a day away. I was no Annie and had no song. Life would be lived, wrappers and cans discarded. And there would eventually be the command, “Take this to The Pit.” Like Sisyphus, I would climb the hill again.

In the fall, my dad would climb the hill and dump a can of gasoline over the stinky contents below. I stayed a safe distance awaiting the flick of the match. The only thing more terrifying than hurling refuse into The Pit would be a conflagration emanating from the bowels of the Earth.

Like the starter at Indy 500, he dropped the tiny lit stick. There was a whoosh followed by small and then giant flames into the air accompanied by curling billows of black smoke. It’s a myth that the shuttle astronauts could see the Great Wall of China from space, but I’m pretty sure they could have seen the smoky eruption from The Pit.

You might think this ritual armageddon would bring relief to my young mind, allay the fears built up over the many months of feeding the hole. You would be wrong. It simply meant The Pit would be hungry for more garbage in the spring. Once again, I would hear those five words. No amount of Bug and Monster Spray could quell those fears.

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