Stephanie's Page

I've recently returned from four weeks in Alaska. The sheen of wedded bliss and an adventure-packed honeymoon are wearing thin under humidity and a renewed awareness of life on our city's streets.

Alaska is where I was born and where I grew up. So the "land with a lot of land" never impressed me. With one person (and whatever one tenth of a person would be) per square mile, my mother-state is essentially one big, pristine back yard.

That's not to say Alaska is without litter. But when we litter, we do it all the way. Entire shiny black bags of wayward trash sit abandoned in willow-filled ravines. Fishing in the silt-grey waters of the [Little Su](http://www.fish4salmon.com/map.html), stray beer cans and candy wrappers are quickly dismissed as the detritus of "outsiders," tourists from the Lower 48.

Having been away from D.C. for an entire month, I've brought back a super-sized sense of land and property, ownership and responsibility. But now my wilderness has shrunk, replaced by the upper reaches of Connecticut and Nebraska Avenues. And while manicured in spots they are, pristine they are not.

I wanted to keep my sense of responsibility instead of melting into the anonymity of the city. Instead of snidely deriding the local litter, cursing fellow urban inhabitants and continuing on my way, I have become my own garbage collector. I've signed myself up for a private sentence of perpetual community service. And no matter how much picking I do, the plastic bottles and newspaper scraps on my daily walk to WAMU never fail to appear. They provide the test: how long I will bother to pick up garbage on my footed commute?

This is morning No. 17 -- weekends not included -- and my efforts are still present if waning. But this morning's pick-up line from two wizened ladies has stiffened my resolve.

If memory serves after a brief glance, their silver S.U.V. had between four and six "Save the (fill-in-the-blank) Ribbon" stickers plastered on the passenger door. It pulled near me and slowed. Sidling up with a smile, I figured the happy looking ladies needed directions.

A voluptuous, older woman sat behind the wheel. She opened with lines of praise: "I've never seen anyone do that!" she cried.

I realized she'd seen me on my morning mission, grabbing garbage and re-locating it to the nearest bin. I thanked her and smiled even wider, as she continued with "there's hope for our children!" and "you are an inspiration!" I felt like a one-woman antidote to all those desultory documentaries at E street cinema. Though I wasn't solving the world water shortage, preventing teens from becoming campus killers or thwarting Big Agriculture, I was taking action...one discarded candy wrapper at a time.

Her diminutive partner, wrinkled and pale behind a set of huge glasses, was silent during the exchange. Finally she raised a wise finger, knobbier than a [diamond willow](http://www.sticksite.com/) from the woods of Wasilla. Pointing to the sky, she said as if she was one to know, "It will be noticed."