—Shel Silverstein, 'Where the Sidewalk Ends'

W ell, Shel, Sarah's not alone. What is it about garbage, anyway? Those stupid cans can't get to the curb by themselves, but the people we parents think should help them get there never do.

And who are the perfect people? Why, teenaged boys, of course.

After all, that's why we had children in the first place, right? (OK, so that's not the only reason ... we also wanted them to mow the lawns.)

I thought about that after racing to the curb at 6 in the morning the other day because I forgot to put the cans out the night before. And as I braved the cold of the early morning hours with the threatening groan of the garbage truck just down the street, I recalled the days we had a teenager in the house to perform this very important chore.

Getting him to do it, though, was not always easy.

"Kevin," I'd say as I pulled into the driveway after picking him up from baseball practice, "it's garbage night."

"I know," he'd say as he made a mad dash for the front door. "I'll do it later."

Let's analyze that for a moment. What exactly does "later" mean?

To parents, it's in about 15 minutes to half an hour—you know, put down the backpack, scope out the fridge, hit the bathroom, and check for phone messages.

To teens, it's ... well, it's never.

So about an hour would pass, and I'd decide that it must be half past later by now.

"Kevin," I'd say, with just a bit more urgency, "don't forget to take out the garbage."

"I know," he'd say impatiently. "I'll do it."

"That what you said before," I'd say.

"No," he'd snap. "I said I'd do it later. Right now I'm doing my homework. I suppose you don't want me to do my homework. I suppose you don't care if I flunk out of school!" (Teens can get very dramatic when trying to avoid a household chore.)

But homework would give way to dinner, and dinner to the telephone. And then there's American Idol . So finally I would say, "Kevin! Those garbage cans aren't going to take themselves to the curb!"

"OK, OK," he'd scream. And with that ... he'd find something else to do.

You know, it's a very simple task to take out the garbage these days.

Why, back when I was a boy, I had to drag two galvanized steel trash cans, each filled to the top with 40 gallons of garbage, down the driveway, about two miles (at least it seemed like it), through the snow (OK, so it only snowed once in Los Gatos—back in about 1958—but it was cold!), to get the cans to the street in time for the garbage pickup.

But the kids today have it easy. We have plastic trash cans ... with wheels ... it hasn't snowed in decades ... and we live a lot closer to the street.

And though her parents would scream and shout, she (that's Sarah again) just would not take the garbage out.

What is with kids and their chores? We don't ask them to do much, but when we do ask, it takes about three or four requests before they can finally pry themselves away from their televisions and video games long enough to set the table, mow the lawn or take out the garbage. And by then, they're mad at us for yelling and harping on them to do whatever chore it is we want them to do!

Kids just don't approach chores with the same urgency parents do. They know that they will eventually get to it. It may take a day or two—or three—but they'll get to it. What's the big deal?!

The big deal? Oh, I don't know ... maybe it's that the garbage guys only show up once a week to pick up the trash. And if no one takes it out to the curb they won't call and say, "Oh, sorry we missed you ... we'll be back tomorrow."

So I would finally scream loud enough to get my point across, and the teenager would finally, begrudgingly, angrily take the cans to the curb. (Retrieving them the next night? Well, that's another story.)

But those teen years are long gone, and since both boys have left the house, the task of taking out the garbage has fallen back to me. Still, the conversation is all too familiar.

"Honey, remember what night it is," my wife will say. "Don't forget to take out the garbage."

"I know," I'll say. "I'll do it later."

Want to talk? Give me a call at 408.354.3110, or write to dsparrer@svcn.com.