Several years ago my husband and I spotted a shredding truck in a Timonium shopping center. I asked the driver if his company went to residences.
Ever since that man said yes, I’ve wanted a truck like his to come to our house. I wanted it so much that I was even able to memorize a new number and hold it in my head for three years.
On Friday morning at 8 a.m., a long white and blue truck pulled up to the curb in front of our house. When I called to make the appointment, the woman asked if a public street was in front of our house.
But of course, I thought, until she explained that their trucks are not allowed to shred in a private driveway. That we do not have.
What we have is too much paper in this house. (Example: I just found a copy of my father’s 1930’s high school newspaper.) Ever since I spotted the shredding truck, we’ve been going through financial records. On the sun porch we stacked 14 bankers’ boxes and three big shopping bags full of papers: ours, my sister’s, our parents’ and even some of our grandparents’ papers.
Friday morning we moved the stack to the front curb. We moved a car so the truck would have plenty of space when it pulled up. By 8:15 a.m., those boxes and bags were empty. The bags were shredded too, but the bankers’ boxes are now back in the house ready for refills.
There’s something about the excitement of the truck pulling up, and the sound of the driver revving the shredder, that motivates me to try to fill the boxes again before summer’s end.