I’m seventy-three, retired, and in a wheelchair—but my life didn’t get smaller. It moved into my front yard. That little patch of land is my pride: young trees I protect, evergreens I tend, birds I feed every morning. It’s how I stay grounded.
So when trash started appearing in my yard, it felt personal. At first it was small—cups, wrappers, cigarette butts—all along the fence I shared with the rental next door. The new tenant never waved, never said hello, and clearly didn’t care.
Then after a heavy snowfall, I found her entire trash can dumped under my young trees. The mess was deliberate, the footprints unmistakable. When I confronted her, she shrugged and told me to clean it up—said I had plenty of time and might as well take out her trash too.
So I did something else instead.
I documented everything—photos, dates, clear evidence—and sent it to her landlord, who happened to be my oldest friend. Within hours, he called me furious. She was month-to-month. The lease had rules. He handled it.
The next day, I brought her a small “gift”: a box containing printed photos of her trash and footprints. Minutes later, she stormed into my yard screaming—she’d just been told to move out by the end of the week.
I stayed calm. I’d asked her politely. She’d laughed. All I did was package the truth.
By Friday, she was gone.
The next morning, my yard was clean again. Snow untouched. Trees safe. Birds back at the feeder.
I may use a wheelchair—but I’m not anyone’s trash collector. And I still know exactly how to take out the trash when it needs to go.