“That poor man!” I exclaimed, peeking from behind the curtain protecting my identity. I could not stop laughing. The unsuspecting trash man had been whistling seconds before. Now, after flinging open the hinged lid of the can, he threw a gloved hand over his nose and doubled over, then peered, questioning, at our house.
Rewind four hours. The warm, sunny, July day had started as uneventfully as a day with a two and four-year-old can.