Go green: dispose of electronic waste responsibly

After using my first computer for about five years, the old unit sat on a desk for another five years, waiting to be sent to computer heaven. My wife still stored some files on the old beast and wasn’t in any rush for me to haul it off, but I was eager to create space on the crowded desk.

The problem was how to properly dispose of an old computer. I tried to donate it to several schools and non-profits, but nobody wanted a 10-year-old Hewlett Packard powered by a 90 MHZ Pentium I chip. I called a couple of electronics stores and the local landfill. No luck. (Maybe I should have called a museum.)

I finally drove it to my city’s recycling center, which mercifully relieved me from it about two years ago.

Today, some U.S. states require television and computer manufacturers to recycle their products free of charge. While some of the laws have been on the books since 2004, I just learned of them. According to the New York Times, 18 states have laws that make manufacturers responsible for recycling electronics. More than a dozen other states are considering similar statutes.

The laws are intended to prevent electronic equipment — television sets, computers, monitors and printers — from ending up in landfills where they can leach chemicals into groundwater. The E.P.A. estimates that 2.6 million tons of electronic waste were dropped into landfills in 2007.

Electronics recycling laws vary from state to state. In most, manufacturers are responsible for the collection and recycling system, although some will pay states or counties to handle the pickup. Many laws specifically ban residents from dumping electronics into the regular trash.

I try to hang onto my electronic equipment as long as possible: I kept my analog TV for 14 years and then gave it to a friend, who still uses it for video games. When the bell finally does toll for another device, like my 1980s-era hi-fi stereo system, I’ll do the right thing and find a suitable resting place for it, rather than just heave it into the local landfill.

I think it’s the right thing to do.

Mom’s tough life provides perspective

It’s a well-worn ritual for young people to roll their eyes as their elders lament how tough life was years ago. Every grandparent has a story about walking to school in the snow (uphill, both ways) or living without some modern convenience.

I catch myself now and again telling my 7-year-old daughter about my own childhood – life before the personal computer, the Internet, email, cell phones, cable TV or the myriad of other indulgences she takes for granted.

I’m just continuing the tradition. I remember my father telling me about his first job, delivering ice for “ice boxes” before the days of modern refrigeration.

My mother, though, had the most sobering stories. She never complained.

Mom, a British citizen, was born in 1930, during the United Kingdom’s Great Depression. Both her parents died when she was young, and she grew up in London in the middle of WW II. The city was under heavy Nazi bombing, which killed more than one of her young friends. As air raid warnings blew and Nazi planes dropped bombs overhead, Mom frequently dove into muddy ditches on the way to school. To make money after school, she cleaned houses; food and clothes were rationed. During the war, no light could be visible from any home after sunset, so she spent her nights in the dark.

Mom finished her formal schooling in her mid teens, then worked in a factory for a year or so before joining the Royal Air Force. At 22, she married my father and had eight children – seven boys and one girl, over a 14 year period, all while moving around the world every two or three years. Dad focused his energy at work in the military; Mom raised all eight of us and still found time to volunteer at our schools and in the community. 

My mother never smoked a day in her life but died of a lung disease at the age of 71. Throughout her life, my mother had great common sense and lived by the Golden Rule. She taught her children the importance of personal responsibility. She appreciated the simple things in life.   

I think about Mom’s life whenever someone complains about a minor annoyance, like the satellite TV going out during a storm or the GPS suggesting a wrong turn to a new restaurant.

Her life still provides me with a sobering perspective.

Mom taught me to think for myself

Years ago, I came home from school one day and promptly sat across from my mother at the kitchen table. I was about 11 years old, and I had a question.

A teacher had challenged the class by posing some dilemma we had to solve. The details are lost to memory, but I vaguely remember the teacher creating some scenario in which the answer was not clear, each potential solution fraught with problems. I found it frustrating.

I was quite good at memorizing facts and figures, and most of our lessons and tests consisted of reading material and then regurgitating cold, hard facts. This whole “thinking through a problem” stuff seemed like a waste of time; just tell me the information to memorize.

My mother, of course, had a different perspective.

“This is good practice for solving real problems,” my mother said. “You’ll find times in life when the answers are not so clear, and you’ll have to work things out.”

I was skeptical, but Mom pressed me.

“What if you’re facing a situation without a simple answer? What will you do if you haven’t worked on difficult problems before?” she asked.

“I’ll ask you!” I said earnestly. I always turned to my mom for guidance.

“What if I’m not here?” Mom asked.

“I’ll find you,” I said.

“But I won’t always be here,” Mom said with a faint smile.

I took her words literally, as if she might be away shopping at the very moment I needed her, or worse, be out of town for the weekend. I still didn’t understand the need to learn this whole problem solving stuff.

At Mom’s urging, though, I worked on my critical thinking skills. Eventually, I became good at identifying and solving problems, both in the classroom and in the real world.

But it wasn’t until college that her words at the kitchen table finally sank in: I realized Mom was trying to tell me she wouldn’t live forever; I needed to learn to solve problems on my own.

Mom passed several years ago. One of her many gifts was helping me to learn to think critically. I still miss bouncing ideas off her and the way she would challenge my assumptions about a path I intended to take. In the end, though, she always required me to work through my own problems and make my own decisions – and take responsibility for them.

My daughter is only seven, but I’ve already begun to teach her some of the same lessons about thinking for herself. As much I as desire it, I won’t always be here for her….