I was driving down Massachusetts Avenue in the Berkshires (minding my own business) when I saw a sign I never expected to see, ever, on a plain one-story building. 

Massachusetts Avenue is a lovely street. Large old houses set back on both sides. Generations old.  The avenue, as it were, was bordered for stretches at a time by nothing but woods, and I love that.  At one point, I passed a large, gray-blue house on the right, its third floor justly boasting a Queen Anne Tower. The whole first floor front was a roofed porch.  A minute later, I passed a large white house with two beautiful, hipped dormers. 

And then it happened. The sign. I saw the sign. The one in front of that plain, one-story building. 

“CONTAINER REDEMPTION CENTER”

Redemption! What on earth could a container have done that it needs redemption? I couldn’t imagine…  I’m sorry Mr. Pepsi  Bottle, and you too, Miss. Campbell Tomato Soup Can. The two of you were seen trying to mate, in the back of a Canada Dry Ginger Ale truck. Grrrr.

Wait, it gets worse. Recently I went to one of those machines you pour your coins into so you can turn your change into bills. The machine prints out a slip with the amount in bills you’re owed. Then, you take your slip to the cashier, and they give your money in bills and perhaps a modicum of change. Well done. It was the sign on the machine that caused me to blink repeatedly, shake my head like a shaggy dog, mutter a word I can’t say here, and check my pulse for reassurance. 

“Turn Your Coins Into Cash.”

Coins are cash!