Clink, clink, clink. Beer bottle, Pepsi can, Budweiser. Men and women dropped them into the heavy duty garbage bag I held out in front of me. Clink, clink. To my young ears, the noise of aluminum and glass falling into the Hefty sack was the music of money.
Growing up, my dad and I collected cans and bottles then returned them for the 5-cent deposit. I stood outside the gates at University of Oregon Duck football games as fans filed in; I scoured bleachers for left behind “empties”; I hopped out of my dad’s Dodge Caravan at stop signs to snag “nickels” discarded by the side of the road.
Collecting bottles and cans was like a treasure hunt. I trained my elementary school-aged eyes to scan tall grass for the glint of aluminum as we drove along. We celebrated when we found a stash of malt liquor cans on a walk along the river. We never knew when opportunity would present itself, so we went about our errands together as if a cache of cans—just waiting to be transformed into cash—might be waiting for us anywhere if only we were ready.
It was a grand adventure.