My mother was the queen of recycling, but since back then the three Rs still stood for Readin’, Ritin’ and ‘Rithmetic, her call to arms was Waste not, want not. For instance, around 1960 my parents remodeled the kitchen. Out went the brown linoleum with it’s frightening, much larger than life floral pattern; in came the pale gray linoleum with miniscule pastel chips reminiscent of confetti, with just a tasteful hint of silver sparkles. “Out with the pea green cabinets,” cried the queen; in came the maple cabinets, the drop-in electric stove and separate double oven unit – all from Sears. Out went the gray swirled 1940s kitchen table with matching chairs, in came a round maple table and sturdy round chairs with padded oil cloth backs and skirted seats with happy-go-lucky roosters. Out went the Frigidaire…oh, hold on a minute…no need to get rid of the trusty Frigidaire, the queen had it painted copper brown to match the ovens; that way I could spend my teenage years defrosting it. Two birds, one stone.
So, you’re probably wondering what remodeling a kitchen has to do with recycling. Hang on, I’m going to tell you right now. Every cabinet that was in the kitchen found its way onto the walls of the garage where lids were nailed underneath and jars of nails, screws and bits and pieces of fishing tackle attached, where laundry detergent and household cleaners that stripped the wax off the hardwood floors, and years off my life were stored. The linoleum found its way to the garage floor where our Hudson rose in status as the only car on the block with linoleum under its tires. The kitchen table went out to the patio. The stove was probably given to the Catholic church in lieu of contributions during mass. Did you know that the church doesn’t accept Monopoly money? Neither did I when I was eight.
As a little kid I was taken with my mother’s reuse of items, but as a teenager and then young adult, I was appalled at the things she saved or wouldn’t get rid of. “It’s still good!” she would tell me. “Mom,” I said on one occasion, “you’ve had this spatula forever. It’s so gross. For cryin’ out loud, by a new one.” Well, my friends, that admonition came to bite me on my backside this last week. You see, until last Monday, August 29, 2011, I had a red spatula that was over three decades old. Why? Because time flies! And because it was still good. It still flipped eggs and pancakes, scooted potatoes around a pan with ease, and it had been through the wars. Forgotten on the edge of a pan, it wore a semicircle of melted plastic like a purple heart. But lately I could feel its handle weakening, could tell the end was near. And then it happened. Right in the middle of a spinach omelet – SNAP! 
My appetite put off by loss, I turned to contemplation: How might I honor my mother and her frugal way. And then it came to me. We never know when we come across a circumstance that teaches us a lesson how it may serve us again farther down life’s road. It wasn’t long ago that a lesson I learned (see my post on the Weed Eater Gutter Cleaning Kit) came back around to serve me well once again. In honor of my mother I give you…
Next time: Sub-birdbia
Greetings From Coupeville 