More than a year ago, Fancy Free asked that a bag of trash be picked up in honor of her birthday. Blithely, I committed. I envisioned picking up trash alongside a creek of free-flowing water on a leafy green, early spring day--birds chirping, flowers blooming and perhaps even a rainbow emerging as God's sign of a good deed well done. In my vision, the trash would not only be clean, it would practically leap into my trash bag. And strangers woud pause midconversation with one another to compliment me on my commitment to nature. Then I forgot all about my commitment. Until December, which explains why Tequila and I slogged through half-frozen mud along a grimly chilled creek bed. I pried chunks of trash--including two, nonmatching shoes--loose from their nature-made graves. Tequila chased any sign of wildlife. No birds chirped. No flowers bloomed. No rainbows shone from heaven. No bonus brownie points from strangers--as no one else was crazy enough to stroll through the land of tossed refrigerators. But I did it. I picked up trash. Nasty trash. For Fancy Free. A promise fulfilled.
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