Back then, we carried brown paper supermarket bags filled with trash down the dark apartment-house steps to the incinerator, pulled a handle, dumped the bag onto a metal lip, and let go. Now we drive three miles to the town dump to recycle glass, plastic, and paper in clear, twist-tied bags, a yellow Town of Shelburne sticker stuck to the side of each one.
Now we sit outside at night and watch the sky: stars, satellites, planets, meteors, the reliable moon, the Milky Way. Then I’d sneak past Mrs. Ross’s apartment and up the stairs piled with her discarded New York Posts to the forbidden rooftop, where I’d creep like a spy over the tarry surface, lean against the stained brick chimney, and look up. Then I heard traffic and planes. Now I hear animals and insects — and planes still, but much higher in the sky, on their way to Manchester or Boston.
