My husband and I are suspended somewhere in the rat-race of forty something. We’re trying to do our best at the roles we have taken on. By the time his work is done, and my list is checked off for the day, there is very little time for anything else. Recently , we started realizing that the little time we had for each other needed some more substance. In a quest for making this a possibility, we introduced the dump date. A trip to the transfer station is always enlightening. We get rid of extra baggage and we can keep an eye on each other’s dumping and collecting mischief. I’m the collector and he’s the chucker. I make sure he doesn’t “mistakenly” throw out $100 American girl dolls that have sat idly collecting dust and he prevents my free pile escapades from getting out of control. In a tiny town of three thousand people, the dump is the hub of everything. Other than the schools, it’s about the only thing we have to show for our tax money. On a Saturday morning sometime soon, I promise to capture this place in full swing. We took the long way home as we did a sunset drive around town. There was the promise of some golden hour photos and some good conversation. It was the perfect date for sure. We drove no further than two miles from our home acting like tourist in our own town. A simple rediscovery of the places and people you love provides the backbone for a good life.