I like the sound of “transfer station.” There is something valuable in the word itself: a worthy object is conveyed from one person to another.

Little Compton’s transfer station does much more than remove rubbish. It is a place to compost food, recycle paper, glass, metal, plastic, mattresses, electronics, petroleum products and more. But what truly made it a “transfer station,” in my mind, was that little piece of real estate next to the garrison house, reserved for items being passed from one neighbor to another. Kitchenware, lamps, children’s toys, artwork, gardening tools, beach chairs, ski poles — you name it. There was a surprising variety of useful and sometimes wonderfully odd things. Of course, now and then something completely useless would appear, except perhaps to one of those true artists who can assemble “lost and found” objects into an elegant expression of imagination. If no one claimed it by the end of the day, it was escorted to the rubbish container.

A few days ago, I visited the transfer station for my scheduled fortnightly sojourn. To my dismay, I watched a gentleman take a used but quite handsome golf club bag out of his SUV. It had some wear and tear, certainly, but it also looked as though it could have served someone for many years — someone who might not otherwise have had one. He stopped when he saw a sign at the familiar little transfer area, a sign neither of us had seen before: “Do not leave anything here.” After some guidance, he regretfully put the golf bag into the rubbish container. It disappeared into the dark, crushing jaws.

Apparently, there is now a rule that prevents the true meaning of “transfer” — to convey, to pass along, even to bequeath — from taking place. That seems unfortunate. In many towns, this kind of informal reuse is actively encouraged. The person bringing the item benefits, the person who takes it benefits, and there is less rubbish. But perhaps most importantly, it creates a small and meaningful connection between neighbors.

I have been the fortunate recipient of many useful things at our transfer station: a bookcase, vases for flowers, picture frames, and even a set of golf clubs, although I don’t play golf. I suspect that someone, surely with benign intentions, left something undesirable at the transfer area, and that one incident triggered a reflex decision that now denies everyone else this simple pleasure and communal experience.

I urge the town council to reconsider the directive and restore this small but valuable tradition. Better yet, I hope the town will go one step further and promote it.

It’s good for everyone.

Ara Sadaniantz

Little Compton