So, you may know by now that I live in Rockport….but, I’m not FROM Rockport.
I lived in Middleton until I was about 12 and then moved to Hamilton. Both of my parents are from Gloucester and I moved there right after college graduation. After meeting my husband I moved to Rockport, his hometown, back in 2000. So, looong story short, I’ve lived in Rockport for 14 years now, but again…I’m not FROM Rockport.
That being said, I can usually hold my own. After 14 years I’ve finally learned the names of most streets (kind of), I know not to take a left down Broadway from South Street on Sundays because it is closed during church services, I know that if you want a cranberry walnut muffin to die for you go to Helmut’s, if the kids are jonesing for a shaved ice you go to Hula Moon, and if you’re planning on a long day at one of the local beaches you’d better plan around the tide…because some of our favorite beaches all but disappear at high tide.
I’ve learned a lot, I’ve met tons of truly kind and fantastic people, and…probably because of my local hero loving young boys…I can greet the harbor masters and police officers by name.
A couple of years ago I wrote how a bunch of the community came together to help celebrate Thatcher’s 5th birthday. It was incredibly heart warming and perfect and to this day I tear up at how special that day was for him.
All of that having been said, there is one part of Rockport that, I have to admit, still intimidates me a bit.
The Dump. Well, see right there…that’s part of the problem. It is not actually called the Dump. It is the Transfer Station….and rightfully so. Back in Middleton we went to the Dump (in our giant wood paneled station wagon with no carseats)…and I remember it clearly, but it was before recycling, and it was truly just piles of trash. I am certain that it is no longer like that now. In Hamilton, we put our trash out for pick up. No trips to the dump necessary.
Now, in Rockport, my husband typically does the, as I call them, “dump runs.” He doesn’t necessarily appreciate the fact that I call them that and has explained that, in no uncertain terms, if I feel that it is simply a dump, then I am not necessarily worthy of making the trips. Awww, shucks.
So, for YEARS, I had never actually taken a trip to the transfer station.
My husband had come home forever with random “treasures” from the swap shop….much to my dismay. The swap shop alone began to spark my interest. Not because I was necessarily in love with anything that he brought home, but because I started to grow intrigued by the vision of the “Land of Misfit Toys” that he loved to visit.
Don’t tell my husband, but I actually found myself having “dump run” envy. It didn’t help that my boys would also come home singing the praises of the dump. I started to feel a little left out. The only girl in the house and all….and the only one not worthy of the weekly pilgrimage to the mysterious place at the end of the driveway on Nugent Stretch. “What is down there?”, I started to wonder.
So, finally, I was allowed to tag along….
And I’ve been meaning to do a blog post about it ever since.
This place is not for the faint of heart and it is truly a fine oiled machine. This place is the Disney World of recyclers, the Tour de France of the obsessive compulsive, and the Super Bowl of “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” While you’re not going to find it on a list of tourist destinations, it is truly a sight to behold. I’m also a bit smitten that it has an area for “Scrap Fishing Gear” as that kind of screams “Good job making a life for yourself in this quaint little town by the sea” if you ask me.
So, if like me, you have never had the opportunity to witness the wonder of the transfer station….here’s a peek inside. Behold.