One woman's trash is another's treasure.
I have a penchant for old things and am more than happy to scour secondhand and vintage stores for unique goods. Since my parents arrived from war torn Germany with little but a suitcase, and family heirlooms are few and far between, I think I like the link to the past that old finds provide. And, since manufactured items all look the same in stores today, I appreciate the distinctive dress from a consignment shop still with the tags on or the solid hardwood table from the used furniture store with nary a scratch. Yes, one woman's trash is another's treasure.
Of course, this wasn't always the case. I grew up in a working class family with six children in a Midwestern community of mostly middle to upper income professional families. Hand me downs and Goodwill outfits were a staple in my life. I am not complaining, but I would be lying that it wasn't a sharp contrast and difficult pill to swallow when I was also around peers who got brand new cars for their 16th birthday.
And, thrifting back then wasn't chic like thrifting is today. I remember leaving Goodwill bathed in an aroma of must and mold and feeling dirty and a sense of shame. I hate to admit this as I have grandparents that barely scraped by in the Great Depression and parents that knew hunger, violence, and fear all too well as children in WWII. I give myself a break as I was only a child then. Now, the values of basic respect for food and monetary goods still form part of the foundation of my being. A penny saved is a penny earned after all.
More importantly, I must remind myself that in a world of over seven billion people, I am among the wealthiest and most privileged. This is due, in part, to my good fortune of being born in the United States. In part, this is also due to the work ethic instilled by my parents and the life my husband and I have worked very hard to create over many years. As such, I try to be a good steward of what luck and hard work provided.
Since we moved into Nara in June, I have been slowly working my way around the yard, clearing out beds, walkways, and underneath bushes and trees of weeds, sticks, debris, and undergrowth. In the process (and I am so far from done), I have been shocked at the trash I have found scattered throughout the property. I decided to keep a list of items, many broken, that I have unearthed:
- Baseball bat
- Two arrows
- Numerous Lego pieces
- Multiple pens and pencils
- Rusty nails and screws of all sizes
- Hammer handle
- Two metal posts
- Nylon string in blue, yellow, red and white
- Birdhouse
- Dart
- Plastic toy shovel
- Canadian and American coins
- Numerous plastic drink bottles (hate those things!)
- Pieces of glass
- Duffel bag
- Aluminum cans
- Bricks
- Sock
- Balls of all shapes and sizes
- A dog's chew toys
- Various metal plates and parts
- Barbie accessories
- Plastic caps, ties, pieces and gizmos in every color
I have no idea where all this stuff came from. One way or the other, it was trashed. And one of my all time pet peeves is how people treat the earth like a trash can. I don't understand how someone can just throw a cigarette butt out the car window or refuse to recycle a water bottle or toss a half eaten sandwich into a landfill without a second thought.
I am a product of the US Forest Service's campaign to protect the environment with the Woodsy Owl motto, "Give a hoot -- don't pollute!" I clearly remember the programming in elementary school in the 1970s. As a result, I am a big proponent of environmental stewardship, including recycling, composting and thrifting. After all, one woman's trash is another woman's treasure only when donated.
In
the Basement of the Goodwill Store
Ted Kooser
In
the musty light, in the thin brown air
of
damp carpet, doll heads and rust,
beneath
long rows of sharp footfalls
like
nails in a lid, an old man stands
trying
on glasses, lifting each pair
from
the box like a glittering fish
and
holding it up to the light
of
a dirty bulb. Near him, a heap
of
enameled pans as white as skulls
looms
in the catacomb shadows,
and
old toilets with dry red throats
cough
up bouquets of curtain rods.
You've
seen him somewhere before.
He's
wearing the green leisure suit
you
threw out with the garbage,
and
the Christmas tie you hated,
and
the ventilated wingtip shoes
you
found in your father's closet
and
wore as a joke. And the glasses
which
finally fit him, through which
he
looks to see you looking back—
two
mirrors which flash and glance—
are
those through which one day
you
too will look down over the years,
when
you have grown old and thin
and
no longer particular,
and
the things you once thought
you
were rid of forever
have
taken you back in their arms.
