There's a Shopping Cart in the Ravine

One hour into the River Run Garbage Grab, and I was already winded, swilling down water from the thermos we’d brought along. By the two hour mark, my back and legs were aching, and I was exhausted. Even as I looked along the riverbank for a few more stray pieces of trash, I knew I was pretty much done and would have to leave any remaining cleanup for another time. Two hours, three full trash bags, and one very tired human being. Well, two actually since my wife was the one who got us into this whole thing in the first place.

I’d never heard of the River Stewards before a month or two ago, but apparently they have been around for many years. Like the name implies, they are a group that takes care of the waterways we have in Iowa, and sponsor a large cleanup effort, the River Run Garbage Grab, every year. Last year over 900 volunteers cleaned rivers, streams and shorelines from Saylorville out beyond Pleasant Hill. I don’t know if they were able to match that number this year, but I do know of at least two that helped out.

We ended up finding out about the cleanup through a group that my wife is part of, which decided the cause was worthwhile enough to tag along with. She immediately wanted to sign up, but I was a bit more hesitant. Not that I didn’t want to help clean the environment - quite the opposite actually. I wanted very much to do some volunteering, especially in a way related to nature, but I was concerned there wouldn’t be enough trash for the effort to be worthwhile. My exact words were “I don’t want to get down there and just find a beer can and two cigarette butts.” After a little discussion, we decided to sign up anyway, and whatever we could do would be better than nothing.

Flash forward to the day of the cleanup. After being given gloves, trash bags and garbage grabbers, we wait to see if the rangers had any recommendations for where we should begin. She asks how ambitious we are. We decide that since we’re a pretty young group, we should be fairly ambitious. The ranger then uses a word I’d never heard before, “riprap,” and points toward the dam.

Riprap, as it turns out, is a word for giant chunks of rock that are used to line waterways in some places. I suppose it’s used against erosion, or something, but from my untrained eye all it meant was a very uneven riverbank that a lot of people were fishing off of. We started off tentatively, balancing on the rocks and carefully picking up a bottle here or a piece of paper there. It didn’t take long for me to realize we’d be collecting far more than a can and a few cigarettes, and not much longer after that for us to fill trash bags.

That’s because the riprap was appallingly covered in trash. Walking up, it didn’t seem like there would be much, but once we got in and amongst the rocks, we couldn’t turn around without finding more garbage. There were cans and bottles, plastic cups, bait containers, fishing line and so much more.

The bait containers were particularly nice, because they are most often made of Styrofoam, one of the cheapest materials possible, but also one of the worst. The ones that had been out there for a while had gotten brittle in the sun, and looked like they would have fallen apart if we hadn’t been there to pick them up. Of course, when they do, they break into small pieces, but don’t break down. So they stay in the water, leaching chemicals, or get eaten by fish, or just go downstream to the ocean. Look up the Great Pacific Garbage Patch if you don’t believe me.

And the fishing line. I think we picked up more of that than anything else. And it was almost always tangled up on the rocks, so it couldn’t be grabbed all at once. I’d try and try to get it, but the only way was to end up giving in and ripping it, assuming that it was better to get some of it in the landfill than none at all. In two hours, we had filled three full-size garbage bags and worn ourselves out with all the tugging and grabbing as well as the balance required to stand on the riprap.

While I caught my breath and drank some well-needed Gatorade, I looked back at what we had done that day. It hadn’t taken long for my mood to change from one of happiness at the good work that we were doing to almost being depressed at how bad things had been. There was so much trash, and every piece that we had picked up meant that another human being had carelessly left it there. How can these people simply not care? If the River Stewards hadn’t planned this event, how bad would things get? Would most people ever care, or would they just keep letting the trash pile up?

The other thing that bugged me were the fishermen. I have been told for years and years that fishermen are outdoorsmen, people who really care about the environment and understand that to take from it you need to give back, too. But I don’t think I saw anyone like that out on the Garbage Grab. A few people picked up the trash around them and handed it to us if we got too close, and there was one guy who said he thought it was terrible that people threw garbage there on the side of the river. But did they pick up trash because they cared, or because they wanted us to get away from them? And had we not been there, would anyone have picked anything up? If people think the conditions are awful, do they do anything about it when there aren’t volunteers there?

I don’t want to come off as too much of a downer, because I do think that the Garbage Grab is a great event and I think that everyone who participated did a very good thing. I’m just disappointed that people will literally trash things to the point where such an event is not just beneficial, but necessary. How great would it be if the Garbage Grab is run and there is nothing to pick up because everyone has been conscientious with their waste and ambitious enough to collect what they find? Let’s all do our part so next year when I’m out there, two hours of work leaves me with a lot more energy and a lot less trash.

You Feel Like Home to Me

Cars rush by on NW 86^th Street, taking employees home for the evening, shoppers out to one of the many stores in the area, or kids out to their little league games. As they speed past, many are no doubt oblivious to the small strip mall set off a little ways behind the old Cobblestone Theatre. And for the most part, they have no reason not to be. The buildings are typical 80s or 90s shopping center construction with no character, based on a “build it and they will come” concept that assumes “they” don’t really give a crap what “it” looks like. As the final icing on the cake, the parking lots don’t connect between parts of the development, requiring a meandering frontage road to traverse between stores. No, most of the travelers probably aren’t missing much here.

Most of the businesses fit the mold of the forgotten strip mall. There’s a clothing store that is already closed for the day, an interior design place and a hobby shop that interested people will find somehow, rather than attracting passersby, and what looks like a neighborhood bar if only we were in a neighborhood and not a neutered beige structure of concrete and brick. There is however, one storefront that is worth checking out, although it looks no different on the outside from the place as a whole. Ted’s Coney Island West, the suburban offshoot of what has become a Des Moines classic.

I grew up in the Chicago suburbs, but that doesn’t really mean what many people think it means. It’s assumed that I’m a huge Chicago Cubs fan, when in reality I have been to just as many Cubs games as Sox, or for that matter Kane County Cougars or Schaumburg Flyers. And I enjoyed them all equally. It really blows some minds when I respond by saying that I kinda like both of the city’s pro teams, but it’s the truth. And then there’s the food. Everyone is familiar with the concept of Chicago-style pizza, and the logic follows that since I am from Chicago* I must absolutely love it. Sadly, not true, and when I explain this I get the funny looks that I assume indicate doubts about my roots.

*I realize that Elgin is, in fact, not Chicago. Most of my fellow Iowans do not. This is reality, and I have come to accept that for many, I grew up in “Chicago.” Close enough.

However, there is one Chicago area staple that I really do love and have missed since I moved out of state. And, ironically enough, most people have either not heard of it or assume it’s nothing special, which makes the whole conversation even more awkward. After explaining that I like the Cubs and Sox equally, and that I don’t really care for Chicago-style pizza, I’ll quickly add that I do really love Chicago-style hot dogs, though. That is usually greeted by a quizzical expression and a question of what a Chicago dog is, or just “a hot dog? Really???” (To be perfectly honest, no one has ever reacted with those exact words, but I can see it in their eyes when they smile and nod).

For the sake of completeness, I’ll now explain what a Chicago-style hot dog is and what makes it special, rather than simply directing everyone over to its own Wikipedia article. The Chicago dog requires the following: a Vienna Beef hot dog on a steamed poppyseed bun, topped with mustard, pickle relish, chopped onion, tomato wedges and a pickle. Not vitally necessary, but definite bonuses are if the relish is neon green, and a sprinkling of celery salt on top. Optional are wedges of cucumber and small sport peppers. Finally, and perhaps most importantly is this – thou shalt not put ketchup on a Chicago-style hot dog. Since I’m a nice guy, probably the worst I will do is ruefully shake my head at you if you commit this offense, but others might not be so lenient.

And, in case you’ve never had one of these dogs, they are absolutely great. One of the best food concoctions of our time. And something I grew up with, either making them at home for a Sunday afternoon lunch, or as a night out at Portillo’s alongside a chocolate malt. That all changed when I moved the 600 miles west to Iowa, or so I thought. For six years of college, I only ate real hot dogs on occasions when I was home to visit. Then we moved to Des Moines, and my wife discovered both Chicago Dog and Deli, and the aforementioned Ted’s Coney Island. By this time I had converted her to become a true hot dog connoisseur, so she shared my excitement at testing the locals against the true Chicago barometer.

Well, to make a long story short (or not), Chicago Dog and Deli was good, but the buns were big and doughy and did not seem to be steamed. I was still reasonably happy with a close alternative, until we tried Ted’s. Ted’s Coney Island, located in a unique Alpine style shop on Ingersoll Avenue, serves up a Chicago-style hot dog almost as good as Portillo’s and in fact even better than some other competitors back home. I chowed it down with gusto, loving every bite and simultaneously kicking myself for not realizing Ted’s had been here all along.

Ted’s Coney Island is a fair ways from our condo out here in West Des Moines, so we decided to give the western location a shot the other day. Perhaps it’s the vanilla shopping center it resides in, but something seemed to be missing from the dog. No doubt about it, it was still great to have a Chicago-style hot dog here in Des Moines, but it seemed to lack the punch of the original Ted’s. It’s probably worth the minor inconvenience to travel a little farther to get to the best dog I can. And considering how far away I thought a real Chicago dog was, going to downtown Des Moines isn’t that far.

So as the sun started to fall a little into the western sky, and as the travelers zipped along to whatever destination they had in mind, there I was, sitting in a booth with my wife and having a taste of home. To the oblivious drivers, there probably wasn’t much to see in the nearby strip mall, but for me it was the culmination of a multiyear search to find the best thing I think Chicago puts out. Well, except for the Bears, maybe. J