At the Mercy of a Trash Can

Technology baffles me.

Most of my skills are archaic, involving hand tools and shovels.

Like that old Hank Williams Jr. song, I can run a trot line and skin a buck deer, but my i-watch remains a mystery, the fish-finder in my boat is still a work in progress, and Siri haunts me.

I’m even at the mercy of a trash can.

About a year ago Barb decided it was time to replace our kitchen trash can. It sat tucked away out of sight under the counter where its decrepit condition went largely unnoticed until it was noticed.

“We have to get a new one,” Barb announced one day.

I was against any change as I usually am. The old can still held trash, and it fit in its hiding place. Arguing to keep the old can, however, seemed pointless. I’d be the good husband and find a new one.

And just as crows are drawn to shiny objects, I soon fell in love with a gimmicky garbage can. Like a baby bird that opens its mouth to be fed, the lid on this new can popped open whenever I passed my hand over it. I wouldn’t have to touch the lid or step on a foot release. I simply had to wave.

Unfortunately, because of how the lid operated, it didn’t fit under the counter in the kitchen. Such a modern marvel shouldn’t be tucked away out of sight anyway, I reasoned, so I moved it to the dining room where it could fascinate visitors and terrify the dogs.

A prominently displayed garbage can, despite its bells and whistles, wasn’t quite the hit I imagined, but for me the novelty never wore off. I fell in love with the touchless disposal of trash. So much so that I began waving at other trash cans, expecting them to open.

“What are you doing?” Barb asked last week, as I stood waiting for the trash can in our kitchen at the cabin to open its maw.

Sheepishly I stepped on the foot lever and the lid rose.

I’m being dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century, a world where Siri asks me to repeat what I said when I cough, my watch shows unsolicited videos, and the lid on my trash can opens when I pass too closely.

I’m more comfortable with a shovel in my hands.

Parker Heinlein is at [email protected]