It's all just a part of living in this thing we call a civilized society. Growth happens, and then trash happens.
In Charleston County, a gang of consultants and committees are trying to figure a way around that truth.
I like how consultant Mitch Kessler put it: "Garbage is kind of special. We all produce it, but nobody wants it."
In this county, 70 percent of the trash is shoved into an incinerator on the banks of the Cooper River and burned, with a bit of electricity being generated in the bargain.
Now, there's talk of shutting the incinerator down. The nearby residents (amazingly, there are some) don't want it, and Kessler's consulting firm says the county doesn't need it. Time plays a role here, as the county's 20-year contract with Montenay Charleston Recovery Resources to run the incinerator expires this year, and the area's Green Committee on Thursday recommended the county opt out now rather than re-up for another 20 years. Better to figure out some other way to get rid of the trash.
OK, like what? The county's big landfill on Bee's Ferry Road has, according to Kessler Consulting, another 12 years of space in it without the incinerator. With it, capacity can be stretched out to 20 years.
The Bees Ferry landfill was one of those things that seemed like a good idea at the time. Even 12 years ago, there wasn't much out that way. Nothing but forest, anyway, and Bees Ferry itself was a two-lane road that didn't see a lot of use. I used to see a lot of whitetail deer and the occasional bobcat out there. Now, it's a whole different matter. Bees Ferry is one of the new growth centers of the Charleston metro area. Several neighborhoods sprouted up there over the past decade, with thousands of new homes. Wal-Mart set up a supercenter there, and there is talk of building what amounts to a second downtown at Bees Ferry and the Glenn McConnell Parkway. All of this is within sniffing distance of the landfill.
The landfill itself can be stacked to a height of 172 feet, which Kessler said still can't be seen from the nearby homes. This part is important, you understand. If it can be seen from the neighborhoods, then folks might guess that big hill is really a garbage dump and think twice about buying a home there, while the existing residents will be screaming for the city fathers to vaporize that landfill, move it somewhere else, do something with it. I hate to say it, but while the People's Republic of California has more or less cornered the market on NIMBY types, a few of them have leaked out to the Southeast along with all the people from Up North.
Grab and growl
Of course, I like the idea of recycling. For years I've railed about man's wasteful nature, and I try to put my money where my mouth is whenever I can.
Currently, about 10 percent of Charleston County's waste stream (I keep visualizing rivers of trash here) gets recycled. Kessler believes the county can bring that number up to 40 percent in five years, though I honestly don't see how. Not without great expense anyway.
According to figures by Kessler Consulting, the current trash configuration (incinerator, landfill, 10% recycling) costs about $15.5 million a year, while taking out the incinerator would bring the cost down to $14.2 million. With recycling stepped up to 40 percent, annual costs would be $13.2 million with the incinerator and $11.2 million without. I don't know where the consulting firm gets those numbers, and it's obvious they're seeing something I'm not (as I'll explain later in this essay). Maybe it's because they're inhaling all that methane gas.
Charleston County does have an interesting setup for trash collection. Every Tuesday the garbage man comes by (and of course I feel duty-bound to tell him I don't need any, thanks) and bulky waste is also picked up at that time. A good part of the local recycling goes on with the bulky waste, though the county probably has no numbers to support this.
It goes like this: In Charleston County, if you have something too big to go into the trash can, you set it at curbside. The tacit understanding is that if someone else sees something interesting in that curbside pile, he can dive in and snag it. No questions asked. In-the-know county residents know when the bulky-waste days are in the more affluent neighborhoods, and then go exploring. The neighborhood is important here; you're more likely to find good stuff on the Isle of Palms than, say, Stall Road in North Charleston. But you get the idea. Grab and growl, no questions asked. We're talking about major bargain shopping where you don't even need to bring your wallet.
For someone like me (OK, I'll say it -- cheap!) this is a great source for all sorts of household goodies. I've outfitted apartments from the piles. That's where I got the desk I use now (never mind the fact I broke my ankle hauling it to the house). And I've picked up several computers, fixed them up, reprogrammed them, and given them away. (Personal note: My eyes are now peeled for a laptop, but I'm not giving that one away. As soon as I rebuild and reprogram it, I'm keeping it.)
Lunch at the dump
Years ago, when I was a distinguished member of the press in California, I sat in on a luncheon held at the San Bernardino County landfill. Odd place for lunch, sure, but the county's solid waste section was under new management and they had something to show us.
A bit of background here: Back then (late 1980s), California was faced with its own trash crisis. The Inland Empire was the fastest-growing region in the nation, and landfill space was dwindling fast. Because of this, some really interesting scenarios were being tossed around, and some were more harebrained than others.
One company proposed building a trash-to-energy incinerator (which sounds an awful lot like the Montenay facility here), but the residents didn't want it. Something about air quality. Another company talked up the idea of a plant to burn waste tires for energy. The company went so far as to say that waste tires collect rain water, which becomes a fine breeding grounds for mosquitoes -- and suggested those critters can carry the AIDS virus. No kidding. One of the company's executives tossed off one of the best quotes I've ever heard in the business: "The mosquito that bites you tonight may have spent last night in West Hollywood." That angle didn't help the company's cause any; once everybody stopped laughing and regained their collective breath, they shouted the whole proposal down anyway.
Another idea that was under serious consideration was to reopen an old exhausted coal mine in the desert and turning it into the mother of all landfills. Send the trash out there by the railcar. To this day, I don't know if this trash-by-rail proposal is still being bandied about, but it was one of the better ones.
Of course, someone had to suggest stepping up the recycling efforts, and that's why we were having lunch at the dump.
Again, this was in the late 1980s, so things may be a bit different now. But the folks running the San Bernardino County Landfill had set up a demonstration of how on-site recycling would go. Set up a conveyor belt. Have a few movable bins within tossing distance -- for different kinds of paper, for plastic, for kitchen waste, for whatever categories of trash you wish to recycle. Have a bunch of people at the conveyor belt rummaging through the piles, picking and tossing. In fact, that's what these employees would be called -- pickers. Anyway, all the trash that was dumped on the conveyor belt ended up in one of the recyclable bins; nothing left over. I was quite amazed. Even the butt of my after-lunch smoke went into one of the bins, though I can't remember which one.
Give credit to the good folks in the San Bernardino County solid waste department for trying. I could see, though, that the concept needed an awful lot of work to be anything viable. The trash-picking process was slow, and incredibly labor intensive. To keep up with the mounds of swill being generated in San Bernardino County you'd need a lot of conveyor belts and an army of people to do the picking. Even with economic times being as they are, you'd be hard pressed to find enough people willing to pick through the garbage. And even if you rounded up all of Southern California's illegal aliens, put them at a conveyor belt, and paid them the prevailing illegal-alien rate, the cost will still be enormous.
For recycling to be done right, it has to be at the individual or family level, and that's where you'll see some pitfalls. Many people just want to dump the stuff, not analyze it. Even I'm guilty of this; once something makes it to my wastebasket it's just trash anyway.
But I did find some interesting Web sites on recycling all sorts of random things a few years ago. Some of these sites lean toward the hippie-dippie audience, but you might get a few ideas on how to reuse or get rid of at least some of your junk there. A Google search might, uhh, unearth a few of these if you're interested.
Meanwhile, I'm looking for that slightly used laptop ... at least 256M of RAM and a wireless card ought to do it, but I can be talked into 512M ...
In Charleston County, a gang of consultants and committees are trying to figure a way around that truth.
I like how consultant Mitch Kessler put it: "Garbage is kind of special. We all produce it, but nobody wants it."
In this county, 70 percent of the trash is shoved into an incinerator on the banks of the Cooper River and burned, with a bit of electricity being generated in the bargain.
Now, there's talk of shutting the incinerator down. The nearby residents (amazingly, there are some) don't want it, and Kessler's consulting firm says the county doesn't need it. Time plays a role here, as the county's 20-year contract with Montenay Charleston Recovery Resources to run the incinerator expires this year, and the area's Green Committee on Thursday recommended the county opt out now rather than re-up for another 20 years. Better to figure out some other way to get rid of the trash.
OK, like what? The county's big landfill on Bee's Ferry Road has, according to Kessler Consulting, another 12 years of space in it without the incinerator. With it, capacity can be stretched out to 20 years.
The Bees Ferry landfill was one of those things that seemed like a good idea at the time. Even 12 years ago, there wasn't much out that way. Nothing but forest, anyway, and Bees Ferry itself was a two-lane road that didn't see a lot of use. I used to see a lot of whitetail deer and the occasional bobcat out there. Now, it's a whole different matter. Bees Ferry is one of the new growth centers of the Charleston metro area. Several neighborhoods sprouted up there over the past decade, with thousands of new homes. Wal-Mart set up a supercenter there, and there is talk of building what amounts to a second downtown at Bees Ferry and the Glenn McConnell Parkway. All of this is within sniffing distance of the landfill.
The landfill itself can be stacked to a height of 172 feet, which Kessler said still can't be seen from the nearby homes. This part is important, you understand. If it can be seen from the neighborhoods, then folks might guess that big hill is really a garbage dump and think twice about buying a home there, while the existing residents will be screaming for the city fathers to vaporize that landfill, move it somewhere else, do something with it. I hate to say it, but while the People's Republic of California has more or less cornered the market on NIMBY types, a few of them have leaked out to the Southeast along with all the people from Up North.
Grab and growl
Of course, I like the idea of recycling. For years I've railed about man's wasteful nature, and I try to put my money where my mouth is whenever I can.
Currently, about 10 percent of Charleston County's waste stream (I keep visualizing rivers of trash here) gets recycled. Kessler believes the county can bring that number up to 40 percent in five years, though I honestly don't see how. Not without great expense anyway.
According to figures by Kessler Consulting, the current trash configuration (incinerator, landfill, 10% recycling) costs about $15.5 million a year, while taking out the incinerator would bring the cost down to $14.2 million. With recycling stepped up to 40 percent, annual costs would be $13.2 million with the incinerator and $11.2 million without. I don't know where the consulting firm gets those numbers, and it's obvious they're seeing something I'm not (as I'll explain later in this essay). Maybe it's because they're inhaling all that methane gas.
Charleston County does have an interesting setup for trash collection. Every Tuesday the garbage man comes by (and of course I feel duty-bound to tell him I don't need any, thanks) and bulky waste is also picked up at that time. A good part of the local recycling goes on with the bulky waste, though the county probably has no numbers to support this.
It goes like this: In Charleston County, if you have something too big to go into the trash can, you set it at curbside. The tacit understanding is that if someone else sees something interesting in that curbside pile, he can dive in and snag it. No questions asked. In-the-know county residents know when the bulky-waste days are in the more affluent neighborhoods, and then go exploring. The neighborhood is important here; you're more likely to find good stuff on the Isle of Palms than, say, Stall Road in North Charleston. But you get the idea. Grab and growl, no questions asked. We're talking about major bargain shopping where you don't even need to bring your wallet.
For someone like me (OK, I'll say it -- cheap!) this is a great source for all sorts of household goodies. I've outfitted apartments from the piles. That's where I got the desk I use now (never mind the fact I broke my ankle hauling it to the house). And I've picked up several computers, fixed them up, reprogrammed them, and given them away. (Personal note: My eyes are now peeled for a laptop, but I'm not giving that one away. As soon as I rebuild and reprogram it, I'm keeping it.)
Lunch at the dump
Years ago, when I was a distinguished member of the press in California, I sat in on a luncheon held at the San Bernardino County landfill. Odd place for lunch, sure, but the county's solid waste section was under new management and they had something to show us.
A bit of background here: Back then (late 1980s), California was faced with its own trash crisis. The Inland Empire was the fastest-growing region in the nation, and landfill space was dwindling fast. Because of this, some really interesting scenarios were being tossed around, and some were more harebrained than others.
One company proposed building a trash-to-energy incinerator (which sounds an awful lot like the Montenay facility here), but the residents didn't want it. Something about air quality. Another company talked up the idea of a plant to burn waste tires for energy. The company went so far as to say that waste tires collect rain water, which becomes a fine breeding grounds for mosquitoes -- and suggested those critters can carry the AIDS virus. No kidding. One of the company's executives tossed off one of the best quotes I've ever heard in the business: "The mosquito that bites you tonight may have spent last night in West Hollywood." That angle didn't help the company's cause any; once everybody stopped laughing and regained their collective breath, they shouted the whole proposal down anyway.
Another idea that was under serious consideration was to reopen an old exhausted coal mine in the desert and turning it into the mother of all landfills. Send the trash out there by the railcar. To this day, I don't know if this trash-by-rail proposal is still being bandied about, but it was one of the better ones.
Of course, someone had to suggest stepping up the recycling efforts, and that's why we were having lunch at the dump.
Again, this was in the late 1980s, so things may be a bit different now. But the folks running the San Bernardino County Landfill had set up a demonstration of how on-site recycling would go. Set up a conveyor belt. Have a few movable bins within tossing distance -- for different kinds of paper, for plastic, for kitchen waste, for whatever categories of trash you wish to recycle. Have a bunch of people at the conveyor belt rummaging through the piles, picking and tossing. In fact, that's what these employees would be called -- pickers. Anyway, all the trash that was dumped on the conveyor belt ended up in one of the recyclable bins; nothing left over. I was quite amazed. Even the butt of my after-lunch smoke went into one of the bins, though I can't remember which one.
Give credit to the good folks in the San Bernardino County solid waste department for trying. I could see, though, that the concept needed an awful lot of work to be anything viable. The trash-picking process was slow, and incredibly labor intensive. To keep up with the mounds of swill being generated in San Bernardino County you'd need a lot of conveyor belts and an army of people to do the picking. Even with economic times being as they are, you'd be hard pressed to find enough people willing to pick through the garbage. And even if you rounded up all of Southern California's illegal aliens, put them at a conveyor belt, and paid them the prevailing illegal-alien rate, the cost will still be enormous.
For recycling to be done right, it has to be at the individual or family level, and that's where you'll see some pitfalls. Many people just want to dump the stuff, not analyze it. Even I'm guilty of this; once something makes it to my wastebasket it's just trash anyway.
But I did find some interesting Web sites on recycling all sorts of random things a few years ago. Some of these sites lean toward the hippie-dippie audience, but you might get a few ideas on how to reuse or get rid of at least some of your junk there. A Google search might, uhh, unearth a few of these if you're interested.
Meanwhile, I'm looking for that slightly used laptop ... at least 256M of RAM and a wireless card ought to do it, but I can be talked into 512M ...
1 comment:
You have to know where to dispose your trash right. This is to ensure that you are keeping things well when it comes to keeping the place clean and organize.
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