The Oldest Collector
I can't figure out how she eluded my stakeout.
She signed the note "The Oldest Collector." I found it one raw winter morning in the blue plastic recycling bin, after the city truck had driven away with our empty cans and wine bottles. Only it turns out that the city didn't get the redeemables. The Oldest Collector had beaten them to the stash.
She was apparently the one who was driving the tan Corolla we'd heard around six in the morning, pulling into our driveway, idling next to the recycling bin. I caught just [for the rest of this story, see the November 2007 issue of Down East]a fleeting glimpse of the gray-coated, stocking-capped figure who got out and picked through our bounty, taking the bottles and leaving the rest. We had thrown a party the night before, so the bin was overflowing. For the Oldest - and arguably politest - Collector, our bacchanal boon deserved a brief thank-you note. It was penned with carefully rounded letters that could easily have appeared on a blackboard in a first-grade classroom. But if our Collector had ever been a teacher, she wasn't anymore. Now she had a job that meant getting up in the dark and making the recycling rounds only moments before the city guys showed up. "I want to thank you for putting out your bottles," the note said. "I am on a fixed income and the money means a lot to me. Signed [she wrote out that word], The Oldest Collector."
After we got the note, we probably drank more that we should. "For the Collector," we would say, popping another cork. And then we would turn up the flame on our new gas fireplace, slip a Netflix movie into the DVD player, sip merlot, and settle back for another carefree evening in one of the two Maines.
In the other Maine, the one just around our corner, the Oldest Collector was probably in her kitchen counting the pennies she got from our bottles.
Or was she cruising the night streets, looking for a place to park her car, crawl under a ratty blanket, and go to sleep?
That was the image that began to haunt me. One night before garbage day, I decided to set the alarm for six-thirty the next morning. I wanted to meet her. I'm a journalist, I told myself, and every Thursday a compelling story - maybe even a desperate neighbor - climbs out of a car in my driveway. All I would have to do is wake up early enough to invite her in for a cup of coffee, while I trolled for details.
Cars are rare on our dead-end street before dawn, and by now I knew the Collector's habits. No matter what time the big blue recycling truck arrives, she is never more than ten minutes ahead of it. And the truck's squeaky brakes and slamming metal door can easily be heard a block before it lands at our house. Still, she's stealthy, and I knew I had to be watching at the window by seven. After a fitful night, I crept downstairs in the dark, made a pot of coffee, picked up my knitting, sank into the plush couch with the view of the front window, and turned on the TV.
Hours went by. On the Today Show, Anne Curry interviewed a svelte blonde who had lost 125 pounds. Another guest trilled on about the proper way to store things you don't have room to display. At no time during this morning "news" program did I learn anything about the plight of once-comfortable senior citizens who pick up bottles to pay their rent. I haven't seen that story anywhere else, either. Yet they must be out there. The Oldest Collector cannot possibly be a minority of one.
I can't figure out how she eluded my stakeout. Around nine, I checked the bin. The mayo and peanut butter jars were still there, under a stack of newspapers. But the wine bottles had again vanished. The Collector had made yet another ghostly visit, unseen, unheard, unhelped. Except by her own early-bird-gets-the-worm work ethic.
My worm, though, had wriggled away. Next week, I plan to set the alarm for four-thirty. But even if I finally "get" this story, it rightfully belongs to the Oldest Collector, who has already taken the trouble to jot it down in a few unforgettable lines. For that alone, I owe her a return thank-you note, which can easily be taped to a blue plastic bin.
She was apparently the one who was driving the tan Corolla we'd heard around six in the morning, pulling into our driveway, idling next to the recycling bin. I caught just [for the rest of this story, see the November 2007 issue of Down East]a fleeting glimpse of the gray-coated, stocking-capped figure who got out and picked through our bounty, taking the bottles and leaving the rest. We had thrown a party the night before, so the bin was overflowing. For the Oldest - and arguably politest - Collector, our bacchanal boon deserved a brief thank-you note. It was penned with carefully rounded letters that could easily have appeared on a blackboard in a first-grade classroom. But if our Collector had ever been a teacher, she wasn't anymore. Now she had a job that meant getting up in the dark and making the recycling rounds only moments before the city guys showed up. "I want to thank you for putting out your bottles," the note said. "I am on a fixed income and the money means a lot to me. Signed [she wrote out that word], The Oldest Collector."
After we got the note, we probably drank more that we should. "For the Collector," we would say, popping another cork. And then we would turn up the flame on our new gas fireplace, slip a Netflix movie into the DVD player, sip merlot, and settle back for another carefree evening in one of the two Maines.
In the other Maine, the one just around our corner, the Oldest Collector was probably in her kitchen counting the pennies she got from our bottles.
Or was she cruising the night streets, looking for a place to park her car, crawl under a ratty blanket, and go to sleep?
That was the image that began to haunt me. One night before garbage day, I decided to set the alarm for six-thirty the next morning. I wanted to meet her. I'm a journalist, I told myself, and every Thursday a compelling story - maybe even a desperate neighbor - climbs out of a car in my driveway. All I would have to do is wake up early enough to invite her in for a cup of coffee, while I trolled for details.
Cars are rare on our dead-end street before dawn, and by now I knew the Collector's habits. No matter what time the big blue recycling truck arrives, she is never more than ten minutes ahead of it. And the truck's squeaky brakes and slamming metal door can easily be heard a block before it lands at our house. Still, she's stealthy, and I knew I had to be watching at the window by seven. After a fitful night, I crept downstairs in the dark, made a pot of coffee, picked up my knitting, sank into the plush couch with the view of the front window, and turned on the TV.
Hours went by. On the Today Show, Anne Curry interviewed a svelte blonde who had lost 125 pounds. Another guest trilled on about the proper way to store things you don't have room to display. At no time during this morning "news" program did I learn anything about the plight of once-comfortable senior citizens who pick up bottles to pay their rent. I haven't seen that story anywhere else, either. Yet they must be out there. The Oldest Collector cannot possibly be a minority of one.
I can't figure out how she eluded my stakeout. Around nine, I checked the bin. The mayo and peanut butter jars were still there, under a stack of newspapers. But the wine bottles had again vanished. The Collector had made yet another ghostly visit, unseen, unheard, unhelped. Except by her own early-bird-gets-the-worm work ethic.
My worm, though, had wriggled away. Next week, I plan to set the alarm for four-thirty. But even if I finally "get" this story, it rightfully belongs to the Oldest Collector, who has already taken the trouble to jot it down in a few unforgettable lines. For that alone, I owe her a return thank-you note, which can easily be taped to a blue plastic bin.
- By: Charlotte Albright
