About once a month, I collect all the paper and cardboard and take it down to the center. I want to emulate my friends that loaded their wagon and walked their recyclables down, but I'm not there yet.
Instead of recycling sensitive personal papers, we collect them separately and then shred those about oh, once or twice a year; I then mix the shreds into the compost pile, supplying much-needed carbon to all the nitrogen of the kitchen scraps. Genevieve is now old enough to do this job largely without supervision.
Pictured below is our newly turned compost pile, one of the ways my husband and I celebrated our anniversary (our anniversary fell on a Saturday, ok? We also went out to a great Thai restaurant, without the children, lest you worry.)
My brother recently told me that their economically depressed little town does not have recycling facilities and barely curbside recycling. I was surprised and then embarrassed to realize that not everyone does have such great opportunities to recycle; my brother thinks people in our city must have known the right strings to pull or grants to apply for.
My little vein of cynicism just can't believe that all the stuff I'm collecting and dropping off is actually being recycled. . . but my hopeful side usually wins out and I keep collecting and dropping off, collecting and dropping off. I wake up too early sometimes and fret over the future of the earth. I want to be able to look my children and grandchildren in the eye and say yes, I did my best to help.