Recycling

I wrote this essay many years ago to have a laugh with and about my father. He liked this essay and bragged to his friends that I used him as a muse for my stories. One of his greatest attributes was being able to laugh at himself and tell his own embarrassing stories.

            When Dad had by-pass surgery, Mom’s company was all he wanted. He was like a child, scared to let Mom out of his sight. Having his tender heart manhandled did a real number on his psyche. The rest of us became pegs looking for a hole to fill. How to help him became how to help Mom while she was sitting beside Dad. On one of my visits, I chose to tackle the kitchen.

            I started by washing the dishes which included more cottage cheese containers and peanut butter jars than I care to remember. My parents could never stand to throw away perfectly good containers, with lids! Throughout my childhood, the dreaded empties lined up on the kitchen counter soaking in soapy water. I always hoped they got washed out before it was my turn at the dishes.

I was sure Mom had a real set of dishes, I’d seen them on birthdays and holidays, but they were hidden behind a multitude of Happy Meal cups, margarine tubs and other designs of reusable ingenuity picked up at the local grocery store or fast-food chain. The rest of the country may live in a throw-away society, but not my folks. They don’t throw anything away. With their grandchildren grown, I felt fairly certain Mom and Dad should be able to use the good stuff without breaking it so I took a few liberties with the cleanout. I imagined how happy Mom would be to find I’d made so much new space in her cabinets. Then, I opened the silverware drawer. I expected to see the complete set of table ware that we’d once collected from inside detergent boxes at A & P. I didn’t know I would have to hunt for it beneath the best KFC and Long John Silvers had to offer, separated by color and stuffed into reused plastic bread sacks wedged between the silverware tray and the side of the drawer, which barely closed.

             Being a preacher’s wife meant mom did not have to cook on Sundays. But that didn’t mean she had the day off. After church we visited shut-ins, sick and old, in their homes, in hospitals and nursing homes until supper. ALL of us. Sometimes, if Dad was lucky, a member of his congregation would invite us for a meal after church (saving him money), but, if we were lucky, they wouldn’t. Yes, the home cooked meals were fantastic, but fast food was a rare and festive occasion for us then and Long John Silver’s did not expect the “children to be seen and not heard”.

            Dad never failed to remind us to save our plastic forks, “You never know when you’ll want to go on a picnic.”  His words still resonate. We never questioned it. We lived in a perpetual state of hope for this thing we saw on television which included a red and white plaid table cloth laid out in the middle of some central park like place and a grand basket filled with fried chicken and deviled eggs, our friends frolicking in the background. There may even be a lake involved. The closest we got to a picnic was riding a wagon behind Dad’s tractor down to the riverbank on our farm to watch skiers skim the water on weekends. Mom probably packed sandwiches. Not a bad adventure but we didn’t need plastic forks for that. I wonder if plastic dinnerware is considered a collectible antique after twenty years, like cars? I could be rich!

            Dad was born in 1928, one of thirteen children.

            Recycling wasn’t even a word back then, it was survival. Dad’s skills in saving had been honed to perfection and carried out in our own family. I’m not knocking his frugality; it was a good lesson for me to learn. I still live within my means and re-use everything possible. It’s just that he and Mom kept everything, well past it’s time.

We enjoyed the treasure hunt of yard sales but no treasures were ever found at one of our own. Once my parents were finished with an item, there was no use left in it. Mom wondered why she couldn’t make any money at yard sales like other people did.

            This fork collection though! Mom had gone to the grocery, most likely because she needed out of the house for a breath while I was there with Dad. I felt sure she wouldn’t mind so I started pulling the massive collection from every nook and cranny in several kitchen drawers. Unfortunately, Dad’s reclining chair was positioned with a view to the corner of the kitchen where I began.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” he yelled.

“I’m just cleaning up a bit, Dad.”

“You’re not throwing those away, are you?” I recognized his high-pitched agitation voice from my childhood. I turned to look at him.  

“I’m thinking about it, Dad. We’re all grown now, why would you need dozens and dozens of plasticware you never use?” I asked.

“You never know…” he began.

“When you’ll want to go on a picnic?” I completed his sentence. He knew he was being called out and I knew I’d overstepped my bounds. Here came that high pitched voice again.

“I have no intention for you to come in here while I’m down and go changing everything around. Does your mother know what you’re up to?”

I knew I was treading on fragile ground, here. I didn’t want to cause him more stress.  “Dad, how about this?” I said, “I’ll box them up and label them and you can keep them in storage. But let’s at least clean out these kitchen drawers, can we? I’ll bet Mom would appreciate that. He agreed, albeit reluctantly. I found a shoe box (of course I found a shoe box, they never got thrown away either) and started stuffing all the white forks and knives and spoons into it, realizing I was going to need a second box for the black set.

            A couple of months passed with no mention of the ‘cleaning incident’.  It was late August and time for our family reunion, which Dad always organized. With his recent open heart surgery, they were going to need some help. Mom phoned to ask what I would bring and let it slip that Dad had volunteered to supply utensils. We both laughed. I should have been glad he’d decided to finally use the things. Or, re-use them as the case may be. I know in my head that plastic can be washed, but somehow the idea of these used plastic forks just bothered me. Who knows, the person I might be eating after could be me—some twenty-five years earlier. It just didn’t seem right.

            Dad, one of thirteen children, gifted me with forty-eight first cousins. Reunion Day arrived and so did our relatives, like a gaggle of geese migrating south. Some in fancy cars as if to say we too should have followed them north for better jobs and better lives. I had no intention of telling them about the forks. I actually thought it was a little bit funny. I came, of course, equipped with my own.

            Standing in line for food I noticed my cousin Bobby, a local, with a stainless-steel fork sticking out of his back pocket. His mother and my Dad were siblings. I slid in the food line behind him. “I see that,” I whispered, tapping on the fork. 

            He pulled me aside as if we were about to become traitors to our country.  “Listen,” he said, “my mom saves her used plastic forks and brings them to these reunions. I’d be careful if I were you, which one you choose.”

            “It’s worse than you think,” I said, laughing, “so does my dad.”  I pulled out my fork to show him and we both broke out laughing. He raised an eyebrow and we looked around the room at all those unsuspecting cousins.

            “You mean all the plastic ware on that table have been used already?” he said.

            “Yep. Should we tell anybody?”

            “No way. It’s too late anyway.” Then, we saw Kim, another local, her mother another sister to the two culprits. The three of us had become pretty close as cousins go. We hated to leave her out so we approached as if we had unearthed a murderous family skeleton.

            “Kim,” I began, “Bobby and I want to tell you a secret.”

            “What’s that?” she grinned.

            “My dad and his mom save all their used plastic forks and bring them to this reunion. We brought our own!” We each pulled our stainless-steel forks out of our pockets.

            “Why do you think I’m carrying my own soda can?” Kim said, “My mom brings the cups.”