By Morgan Tyree
Editor's note: the following recollections of Powell were submitted as part of the Tribune's celebration of Powell's Centennial. More information on the project can be found here.
The other night I threw out my old house slippers that my wife had purchased for me the last time she was Christchurch, New Zealand. As I carried them out to the alley where the dumpster awaits, I considered the stars above and the thousands of miles the slippers had traveled (not necessarily with my feet in them). After making the glorious journey from New Zealand to Wyoming, they would simply return to the earth via the Powell Landfill. I felt they should be sealed up and shipped back to Christchurch where someone could depose of them in a more respectful manner; much like the remains of a foreign national who is returned to their home country for burial.
I looked at the shoes one more time. The tags on the inside were very worn, but I could plainly read, "Made in China." Hmmm, I contemplated. Still, so far away but, their mysterious appeal and existence seemed to suddenly fade when I considered all the things around me that are made in China. Undoubtedly the slippers will feel right at home in the Powell Landfill.
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