It's The Small Things

My wife and daughter are the ones who really made a big deal about it.

For years, I've considered getting a device that would crush the aluminum cans that we accumulate, be it the small cans of soda water, tonic, and the occasional pop cans, or the tall boys, the pint cans of beer that I go through on a regular basis.

The reason for getting the can crusher was two-fold: it would limit the amount of space these cans take as they fill up our blue recycle bin and it would save my hands, which sometimes fall at risk of being sliced open as the can tears and exposes jagged edges as I crush the cans by hand.

I wasn't desperate for the can crusher; rather, it was one of hundreds of nice-to-have items that I've stored in my head, planning to buy when the time was right, when my want for the item fell in a time when I was thinking about it and had the time and budget to get it. The time became right as I was reading my Twitter feed and saw that a friend had picked one up, and was taking some pleasure in crushing these columns of light metal that we call cans.

With my smartphone in hand, it was only a few seconds of searching before I found a device that had good reviews and was reasonably priced. A few swipes later, it was ordered.

DW and DD17 were in the kitchen with me, as I ordered the crusher, and I mentioned it as I tapped the Place Order button. They questioned why, after so many years without one, I suddenly felt the need to spend money on what they thought was a frivolous purchase.

I explained that it was something that I had on my mental list for years, that I found one that looked decent, and I added the pleasure that my friend got from using hers.

Both wife and daughter said I was nuts.

A couple of days later, the package arrived on my doorstep. As I opened the box—again, in the kitchen where DW and DD17 were watching TV in the adjoining family room—they exclaimed that I was crazy for buying the can crusher.

"Why are you making a big deal over it?" I asked.

"You're making a big deal over it," they said.

"How am I making a big deal? I merely mentioned that I was ordering it and had wanted one for a while."

"It's just extra, Dad," said DD17.

I rolled my eyes and took the device to our garage, looking for the best place to affix it. There were a couple of places, but I thought the best one was near our blue recycle bin because I could crush a can and simply drop it in the box. I didn't have time, right away, to mount it to the wall, so I set it in our laundry room, which leads into the garage, and left that job to the weekend, when I usually do big chores around the house.

On Saturday, I got out my tool box to retrieve my electric drill. As I was attaching a screw head to the bit, DW asked, "What'cha up to?"

"I'm mounting the can crusher to the wall."

"Oh my God, Dad!" exclaimed DD17.

"And you say that I'm making a big deal about this," I said.

I placed the device against the door frame that leads from the garage to our laundry room. That's where the stud was located, where the crusher wouldn't get in the way of the recycle bin or the extension cord that hangs further above. Four screws, and it was done.

I moved the lever a few times to ensure that the action was smooth and that it didn't strike the door frame. It was perfect. I tried to move the crusher but it was solidly attached to the wall. I put my tools away and went about the rest of my chores.

That evening, as we watched TV, I chose a nice, juicy IPA to enjoy as we relaxed. I filled a glass and then carried the can as I headed toward the garage.

"Are you going to crush the can?" asked DW.

"Yup."

DD17 rolled her eyes. I said nothing.

My friend is right: there's a certain satisfaction in effortlessly, safely reducing a large beer can to a thin mass of twisted metal. The crusher worked perfectly.

I said nothing as I returned to the family room.

"Well?" asked DW.

"Well what?"

"How was it?"

"It works exactly as designed." I focused on the TV program.

DW picked up her empty can of club soda and asked DD17 if she wanted to try the device. Our young daughter declined. DW rushed out to the garage and came back with a smile.

"That was satisfying!"

I declined a comment but inside, I was smiling. Two of my family members had made a big deal about my order, but now one of them was converted. So far, my kid hasn't shown any interest. That's okay.

When I finally made the decision to knock one item off my mental shopping list, I was purely looking at the practical application of the device. Given the amount of cans we consume in a week, given the desire to protect my hands (I'm the only one who crushed cans before throwing them out), it was a good idea. But the small satisfaction that the process of crushing the cans provides, there is an unexpected entertainment value that is added to the purchase.

It's the small things in life that make it worth living.