A morning with Mary

“Hey writer guy! You need a dump lift for that truck!” It’s Saturday morning down at the Hillier landfill site: actually when I say down I mean the section for dropping off garden waste that is quarry-like, which promises that ne’er a hint ’o lake breeze will kiss this kiln-baked crater on a morning like this. The ‘dump lift’ shot of humour from the two hefty guys with the orange pickup truck is aimed at the unwieldy load of garden waste stacked on the rattily gate farm truck I’m cursin’ to offload.

My present chore is the comeback to my blasé smartass answer to—“where do you want this?”—a question asked by one of the three garden cleanup crew who referred to freshly pruned cuttings and branches sitting in my yard earlier this week. “Ahhhh just toss it on the truck…I’ll take care of it,” one of my typical moments when I can’t forward-think as to what happens next. Well, what happens next in this case is exactly now, me in the landfill unprepared with things like a hay fork or sun hat or water bottle, but I do have a good rant going about what in hell was I thinking.

I labour on as folks in the black pickup with trailer swiftly unload and smile and leave and then the blue truck crew do the same and on it goes. I thought it would be a simple thing to yank on the branches at the bottom of my truck pile and voila, the whole load would slide off in one great mass just like that glacier the size of Manhattan that launched off of Greenland recently: cool, effortless, surprise factor included.

Next I try driving the old blue Ford ahead three hundred paces as if setting up for a duel. Then with the truck box gates wide open and in reverse gear I gas it fast like stink and then slam on the brakes for a dead hard stop and again the whole shebang should simply skate off like beads of mercury in my Grade 6 science class. Apparently not a chance; landing four feet deeper into the brush pile with load still intact was not my proudest moment.

By now at least another half dozen vehicles have come in, unloaded and have left unburdened and sans mercy: Wavering, self-conscious thoughts creep in; maybe they’re all headed to the same pool party that’s serving margaritas; or maybe it’s my obvious out-ofdepth methodology they want to ignore; or is it my Hawaiian shirt and utility kilt wardrobe that seems to encourage fast exit: Whatever.

But I like to say that there are bonuses to every effort and this morning wasn’t going to be an exception. Making peace with myself as I sweep out the truck box when finally done, I’m driving out feeling like I’m the last to leave the Mustang Drive-In on feature night only without the popcorn spill on the front seat.

As I approach the official greeter’s shack at the gate I stop to take in something that attracted my attention when I was entering. The most calm and polite attendant Gwyn comes out to see what I was caught up with. I jokingly mention that perhaps she would be sending in rescue crews due to my prolonged stay, but quickly my line of questioning turns to the occasion that beckoned the presence of Jesus and Mary at the shack’s front door.

In all my understanding of the story it would seem that the Hillier dump shack was everything that a stable in Bethlehem was not. Take camels for example, and furthermore the season is definitely out of whack. I’m apologetic for any unintended slight of religious icons, but the sky blue and white three-foot high painted concrete statue interpreting a baby in the arms of a mother ranks number one on the all-time list—way above pink flamingos and garden gnomes—when it comes to outdoor ornaments in yards around the world.

I mean, I spent a good part of my youth in rural Quebec where Jesus hung on the cross at every road intersection and again down every way, besides having outdoor bake ovens with a handmade sign announcing ‘Pain’, the mother lode of statuary was good ol’ Mary with child taking shelter in a homemade grotto, some made of salvaged bathtubs set on end. No wonder I’m still haunted.

Meanwhile later in life, living in a downtown city neighbourhood with a dominant and fervent Portuguese population also meant that the same icon presided on every second front lawn. And so it was.

“Someone spotted it up in the trash section and brought it down saying Jesus doesn’t belong in the dump,” Gwyn’s reply to my main ask. I mentioned the marble gravestone that a lady driving a red Caddy deposited in the heap a number of years ago—but that’s’ a story for another day—I said that Jesus and Mary at the Hillier dump would be an incredible idea for a stage play don’t you think? She smiled and quickly added that her background was in writing and in film and her formal training in theatre arts at Queen’s and later in Paris and at that point the heavens opened up. ‘It’s going to happen’ I swear I heard the voices say! I drove out of there singing Halleluiah with renewed appreciation for gifts from the Universe.

But it wasn’t until I hit Wellington that the significance of my experience began to sink in. As I sat at the stoplight at Main and Wharf Street watching a Sobey’s eighteen- wheel tractor trailer navigate the corner by Foodland while 24 cyclists, two large grey horses pulling a wagon of sixteen tourists sat waiting meanwhile a mix of pedestrians, motorcycles, and vehicles of all sizes crept along the corridor between parked cars belonging to supporters who flooded the Wellington farmers market, it was then that I began to ponder the consequences of revealing my sighting of Jesus and Mary and what that would mean to traffic here. I mean go figure: With Buckingham Palace already hanging a map of the County on its walls, how will the Popemobile and throngs of its followers ever manage the inevitable pilgrimage to the landfill site on Cold Creek Road and who would make the T-shirts and what should they read and all the rest of it?

By the time I reached home I had calmed down. Until I opened my mailbox that is: A follow-up email from Gwyn with a photo of the statue; “BTW” it read, “Jesus and Mary came in with Joseph and a lamb that are apparently still up there in the refuse pile!” Geeeezz!! I can’t stand the wait!

But listen, please keep all of this to yourself or crowds will take over! Meet me at the dump next Saturday with shovel in hand. Bring lunch in case Joseph takes a while to find.