Our outdoor trash bin has a reputation. It sits right outside our front gate, and for reasons no one can has been able to explain, residents from the cul-de-sac across the street treat it as communal property. It is often too full for us to be able to pt our trash in it. Our neighbors informed us that the home’s previous owners occasionally engaged in shouting matches with passersby over this issue. (I personally would love to have a chat with the person who dumped their cholent in there, sans any wrapping, and dripped all over the side of the bin and ground nearby.) Shortly after we moved in, someone bypassed the debate entirely and just stole the bin. Its replacement sports a massive, spray-painted “25.”
Despite the spray paint, the cul-de-sac neighbors persist in their habits. They fall into two distinct camps: the bold ones who will look you dead in the eye while dropping their garbage into your bin, and the strategists who, upon spotting you in the garden, walk three doors down to use someone else’s bin.
This morning, while working in the front yard, I encountered a strategist. On his way back home, he stopped to chat. In my exceptionally limited Hebrew—and with only one request for him to repeat himself—we managed a full conversation. By the time he walked off, he knew our monthly rent, our landlord’s refusal to sell, and our dreams of moving up north in a few years.
It made me momentarily thankful that our trash bin serves as an odd kind of neighborhood crossroads.
That brings me to the other side of the curb economy: seeing what people throw away. Living car-free in Israel has definitely limited my curb-thrifting habits. You can’t ask a bus driver to pull over so you can load a discarded end table, and you can only rescue what you can physically carry home. Great stuff you spot on your way somewhere is rarely there when you come back. But sometimes, the timing is just right.
Recently, someone left a large metal washtub on the corner near our house—the unofficial drop zone for items too large to fit into my trash bin. The bottom weld had failed, leaving a hole so large it would make Dear Liza weep. I dragged it home and waited for inspiration to strike.
In a neglected corner of our garden, where even the numerous spider plants refuse to take root, there is a patch of packed dirt where only weeds grow. The tub fit the space perfectly. I lined the bottom with flattened cardboard boxes topped it with dirt, and got to work turning a piece of junk into a planter. I was dumping the dirt in when my strategist neighbor stopped by to chat.
In the past, the neighors likely didn’t need to use other people’s bins; their own were enough. But that was then and this is now. In 1960, the average person generated roughly 2.68 pounds of trash per day. Today, that number has climbed to almost 4.5 pounds per person, per day—a nearly 70% increase. A large portion of this growth isn’t all the things we’ve bought but the packaging our new whatever comes in. All this trash has to go somewhere, and the chemicals it will leach will have to be contained. The trash that is burned will put particulates into the air and result in concentrated unburnable waste that has to be put somewhere.
When something breaks—like a metal tub losing its bottom—the modern default is to toss it and move on. But Jewish tradition offers a very different orientation. When Yaakov went back across the river for his pachim ketanim—his small, forgotten containers—he wasn’t just being frugal. He was demonstrating that everything HaShem places in our hands has purpose and value.
Repurposing a discarded tub with cardboard and soil isn’t going to solve the global waste crisis. But it focuses my mindset. It reminds me to slow down, look closely, and ask: Is this really trash, or does it just need a new purpose?
Sometimes that purpose is holding soil for new growth. And sometimes, standing in the garden with dirt on your hands is just the excuse you need to hold a conversation with a neighbor. Maybe next time I’ll ask him why everyone uses our trash can.
Until next time,
Amy Eliana
Chanuka Chanukah Chanukka Chanukkah disinfect donuts doughnuts ecofriendly elul flowers food waste frum garden gardening gratitude Hannukah Hanukka Hanukkah homemaking israel jewish lag b'omer landfill lashon hara low-waste mishloach manos mishloach manot nature orthodox passover pesach plants purim recycle recycling reduce reusable reuse teshuva upcycling washcloth water conservation water waste zero-waste zero waste
The Bal Tashchit Balabusta 
Leave a comment