Sad saga of a plastic bag. A good read.

I've just copied this story from globeandmail.com. I think it makes a great read! Imagine this happening all over as it is bound to if we don't find a way to stop people from using plastic bags. Reusable bags are so much more logical and so affordable at you can see at www.badlani.com A sad saga of a plastic bag We're told to be careful what we wish for and I believe this to be sage advice. By ELAINE OPHUS Tuesday, April 5, 2005 Page A20 While driving to work recently, I was struck by the sight of a plastic grocery bag being blown down the street by the wind, rolling along in a swirl of dust like some kind of modern-day urban tumbleweed. Suddenly I was back in Edmonton, and it was winter, 1994. Of the 18 winters I spent in Alberta, this was the coldest, the longest, the dreariest. Even the platitudes that usually brought comfort weren't working. ("It's a dry cold." "It's a sunny cold." Ha.) As December dragged into January, then February, the prospect of spring seemed to be receding rather than approaching. Our house backed onto a busy four-lane thoroughfare. The level of the backyard was somewhat higher than the avenue itself, and a tall privacy fence screened the yard from the traffic noise. Outside the fence was a sparse row of trees growing on a flat, grassy berm, which then sloped sharply to the street. These trees were so slender as to be spindly, and so tall that only their topmost branches were visible from the backyard. The view from the top floor took in the yard, the street and the upper half of the spindly trees. One morning, around what seemed like the 53rd of February, I glanced out the bedroom window while getting ready for work. Something fluttered in the breeze near the top of one of the trees on the berm. It took me a minute to realize it was a plastic grocery bag, complete with red Safeway logo, clinging to a leafless branch by one handle. The way it was flapping about I was sure it would disentangle itself and blow away. Off to work I went, without giving it another thought. The next morning I looked out the window again. Now the bag had secured itself by both handles to the branch (only a twig, really) which became a flagpole (bag pole?) as the bag billowed and fluttered with every passing breeze. As the days passed, it showed no signs of loosening its grip on the tree, although the wind was at times quite strong. By the time March departed in its usual lion-like fashion, I was sick of snow-covered ground. Tired of landscape with no colours except brown and grey and white. (Well, there was the red 'S' on the bag, which I did my best to pretend was a yin. Or maybe a yang.) Most of all, I was tired of the sight of the bag, which in my mind had grown somehow to become a smirking, gloating, animate object. No, worse: it loomed like a symbol of the triumph of rampant consumerism over nature. It taunted me, it stuck out its imaginary red tongue at me. If the window hadn't frozen shut I might even have leaned out and shrieked at it. Now, at this point you might be inclined to dismiss me as a flake, a bleeding-heart liberal tree-hugger. So be it. But my theory is that I was suffering from an accumulation of winter misery. By this point in my life I had just had too many minus-30 degree days; too many hours spent bundling the kids into snowsuits only to have them play outside for mere minutes; had once too often lost my bedding plants to an early June frost. I couldn't bear the thought that soon the tentative, emerging leaves would be smothered by this plastic nuisance. On impulse, I walked down the street and around the fence and climbed up the berm, thinking that perhaps I could pull the flexible sapling branch down far enough to release the bag. Quickly I realized the futility of this: the tree was at least 20 feet tall, and much too flimsy to climb. I returned home, discouraged but not ready to give up yet. The next morning I phoned city hall. I was transferred three times, but each person I spoke to listened politely to my tale of woe, and I was eventually connected to the public works maintenance department. Making a conscious effort not to come across as some kind of kook, I explained why I was calling. The voice on the other end assured me that the next time they had a truck in that area they would look after it. I assumed they were just humoring me, but even having made the effort lifted my winter-weary spirits a little. When I got home that evening and went upstairs, I glanced out the window before closing the curtains. My jaw dropped; I did a double take. The bag was gone! Vamoosed! Took a powder! I was dumbfounded. There was no way it could suddenly have blown away. Not after nearly two months of being so securely fastened to the tree, through wind and blizzard and dark of night. We're told to be careful what we wish for and I believe this to be sage advice. You might think that trouncing my little synthetic friend would be deeply satisfying, but you would be wrong; by the next morning my euphoria had worn off. Humph, I thought to myself. No wonder our taxes are so bloody high, if they can afford to send out a truck every time some stupid piece of plastic gets caught in a tree. I think I'll phone city hall and complain about this extravagant misuse of expensive resources. I hope they at least recycled the bag. Elaine Ophus lives in Kelowna, B.C.