Howard Hughes died around that time and the earlier made-for-TV movies that chronicled his life and forecasted his death were playing in reruns on Saturday afternoons. Hughes, according to the stories, would separate and consume his peas by size and in order. He would also collect and stock the fingernail clippings and hair he would acquire from his annual personal hygiene sessions. The notion of such eccentric behavior was entertaining at the time. But I was stunned when I realized that the small plastic-wrapped bundles on the door and bottom shelves of Mammam’s side-by-side freezer contained her garbage.
My mother sorted the frozen trash from the edible goods and I brought the galvanized garbage can in from outside under the fire escape to make the disposal easier. The garbage-man had apparently made his weekly rounds and the can was empty. Mammam said little if anything about the my mother's activity - she never really stopped talking, but she said little that addressed that day’s goings-on specifically.
Several days later my father sat at the round kitchen table in Mammam’s kitchen. It was located under a small awning window situated near the metal fire escape that lead to the apartment upstairs. Three days of August heat had cooked the garbage and a dreadfully unpleasant odor wafted inside. No one had to tolerate that smell earlier that summer and afterwards, realizing this, we let Mammam dispose of her garbage the way she wanted – an odorless way.
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