It's a Family Tradition (Apparently)

Let’s get one thing out in the open right away: I am not a scientist. However, since writing earlier this month about Zienna's fascination with waste collectors—and speculating that there must be a recessive gene responsible for such a quirk—I've learned enough to deduct, relying solely upon my rudimentary high school and college genetics instruction, that I was 100% on the mark. And when the science journals are writing this stuff up and you see it reported on Headline News, you, lucky reader, can say you heard about it first.

Just witness the staggering evidence pouring in from both sides of our family:

Case #1: My Nephews Aidan, Cole and Grant

In that previous entry, I discussed how my brother Steve's boys' appreciation for their garbage man is so deep-rooted and impassioned that it will one day be the stuff of legends—even if Walter, the man whose heroics turned them into Garbage Groupies, seems to have left the building.

"I'm afraid we haven't seen him lately," Steve commented on the entry. “We still have his Christmas card waiting, but every week since before the holiday, it's been a different driver.”

“We're left to wonder what's become of him."

Too bad about Walter, since he's the one who launched the boys' fanaticism. But it seems obvious that when any part of "we"—as in, your entire family—has a Christmas card waiting for one specific guy who humbly removed your rubbish, you're a true fan of the man.

Conclusion: Garbage Groupie gene present.

Case #2: Kelly's Nephew Adam

After reading about Zienna, Melissa, Kelly's father's sister, emailed to tell me that as a child, her son Adam exhibited signs of being a Garbage Groupie.

"When Adam was about two, he developed a thing for the garbage truck's arrival," she said. "He actually got to the point where he 'rode' the side of the playpen his younger siblings were in, holding a round block container that was his version of the garbage can."

Melissa and her then-husband, Howard, searched desperately for a toy garbage truck to supplement Adam's faux can. That by the time they did, Adam was four and "on to much bigger and better things" doesn't discount the fact that at Zienna's age, he’d had the bug. Riding a playpen and pretending it's a refuse rig? C'mon. Case closed.

Conclusion: Garbage Groupie gene present.

Pretty impressive, you say? Well, hold on tight, because you haven’t seen anything yet. Just take a look at this one…

Case #3: Me

That's right. Hard as I find it to believe, yours truly apparently carries the Garbage Groupie gene himself and, as a child, exhibited its presence. This stunning news comes from none other than my mother, whose email on the topic may have provided the clincher in my informal little study.

"I thought I’d told you of your fascination as a youngster with garbage men,” she said. “You were little, and it was the highlight of your week, seeing the guys come to collect our trash!"

Continuing, she said, "At that age (probably 2-1/2 or so), whenever your dad and I asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up, your reply was, 'A garbage man.'"

"This was cute to us, and we figured you would grow out of this idea one day," she added. "So, ugh, I think this fascination comes by our family naturally. You started, I think, by being the first in our family to have the fascination!"

Conclusion: Garbage Groupie gene present—unless you're gonna argue with my mom, that is!

So there you have it. Children on both sides of our family have, for more than 40 years, scrambled to their respective windows just to catch a glimpse of a guy tossing trash. And clearly, since the trait is now present in our daughter, there’s definite genetics at work. It’s as simple as that.

Rubbish, you say? Perhaps. But I'm afraid we'll have to shelve that debate and revisit it later. Right now, I've got to do some serious soul searching. Maybe even hunt down a regression therapist. Because to be honest, I'm reeling from the image of little me getting excited over a garden variety waste collector.

Me, a Garbage Groupie? Sheesh...

Trash Talk and Garbage Groupies

For some time, my brother Steve has been writing about his sons' fascination with their garbage man, Walter. Their obsession with his profession has made its way into their artwork, room décor and toy collection, which I’ve found peculiar but amusing since The Z Kids’ idols have typically been…oh, let’s just say more traditional. Firefighters. Cops. Soldiers. Athletes. Musicians. Actors. Even politicians, in some cases. But certainly not garbage men.

Cue whatever sound indicates irony since it’s looking like I may be forced to accept the possibility of a recessive Hamilton gene that causes otherwise normal kids to become garbage man groupies. Because unbelievably, it's not just my nephews who are jonesing for the junk man. It's Zienna, too.

It all started innocently enough. We moved into a partially-completed housing development before Zienna was three months old, so she’s only too accustomed to seeing big trucks outside our front windows. The older she's gotten, the more excited she's become about the spectacle, and it's a common sight to see her, face pressed to the window or even outside on the porch, taking it all in with wide-eyed wonder.

But, as the construction has started winding down, the daily rig rally has slowed to a mere trickle, much to Zienna’s dismay. Leave it to my smart little cookie to take note of the fact that if Daddy has the trash bins sitting at the curb when she rises, then it must be Friday morning. And that mean trucks are coming. And not just any trucks, but the ones with giant, mechanical claws that lift the bins high into the air before dumping their colorful contents. Wow.

Mind you, even though he's a boy, Zach has never paid much attention to garbage trucks or the men who drive them. Nor has Zoë. But one Friday a few months ago, Zienna heard one coming, ran to the window screaming "Garbage man! Garbage man!” She watched it do its deal and then, as best as I can tell, spontaneously developed the same fanaticism that afflicts her cousins.

Overnight, she began pointing out every truck around town, jumping frantically in her car seat and doing the Garbage Man Chant. And, she insisted that I look at whatever vehicle to which she was pointing (often not a garbage truck) and share in her excitement. On one such occasion, Zach and Zoë stared first at Zienna, then at me, with dumbfounded looks on their faces.

"She likes garbage trucks," I said matter-of-factly.

"That's dumb," Zoë replied, just as matter-of-factly, as only a seven-year-old can do.

“Not to a two-year-old,” I countered, momentarily buying into the hysteria and falling into a losing battle.

Still, even if Zienna’s siblings weren’t on board with her rubbish retriever rage, it was clear she was hooked. And then, with her admiration for garbage gurus already in place, it happened: Sitting on the porch with special guest Mommy on the Saturday (since it was a holiday week) after Christmas, our garbage man noticed Zienna waving. And he waved back. And honked, as only a big, semi-shiny garbage truck air horn can honk. And Zienna went nuts.

Unfortunately, that incident has created its own problem. Ever since, as it was today (and frankly, every garbage day since), if the garbage man has not waved or honked, Zienna has been horribly disappointed. And who can blame her? Once the man in that big, filthy truck has acknowledged you as a fan, you're going to want your fix every time you see him!

I said earlier this week that Zienna is prone to idiosyncrasies. So, am I worried about her one day riding off into the sunset with a garbage truck jockey? Eh, if he were a nice guy, I’d deal with it. But since my girl's a neat freak, washing her hands constantly and often bathing multiple times per day, I can’t see it happening.

But if he allowed her to honk the horn herself or—gasp—operate the big claw, even? Well, you never know…