Mount Trashmore

I have to admit right off the bat that Mount Trashmore is not one of J.'s favorite places. He comes from DC, a place where they ship their garbage off to West Virginia when they're done with it. They definitely don't heap it up in the middle of town and cover it with grass to make a nice little park out of it, no siree. He can't quite get over it, a hill made of garbage creeps him out a little.

But I do like Mount Trashmore -- I think I like it because it is a glorified landfill. Mostly because I have this Anne of Green Gableish streak in me that likes the idea of making something ugly into something pretty, something that can be enjoyed by everyone.  I have fond memories, too, of flying kites at the top with my dad, or rolling down the sides with friends. And it's refreshing to stand at the top of a nice windy hill. I forgot that, since becoming a flatlander again.

In any event, in an effort to combat the November blues, I've been trying to spend a fair amount of time outside this month, and Mt. Trashmore is a favorite destination. The park is a good one, with lots of climbables and swingables; there are always geese by the lake to wave at (scream at, in A.'s case); when the trees still had leaves, and after they had turned, the view from above was so pretty, and it's really only of the interstate, so that's saying something.  The stairs up to the top are a very effective workout (judging by the miserable cross-fitters we passed on our way up and down), and the loop around the hill and park is the perfect little after-dinner walk.

This was Baby A.'s inaugural Trashmore visit, and her thoughts on the place consisted of "Wow," "Cool," "Yay," and "Doggy!" Which sums it up, doesn't it?