Oh, Darn

When my mother found something particularly funny or helpful in the newspaper, she would clip it out and post it to the refrigerator where it would remain for family and visitors to read until the paper yellowed and the edges curled and, eventually, the piece's significance would be forgotten. Mom would put up Erma Bombeck columns. Recipes she wanted to try. Comic strips.

One Hi and Lois strip has remained in my memory for thirty-six years: In the first frame, Hi hands his wife a sock and tells her that it needs to be darned. Lois takes the sock in the second frame, and studies it intently. In the final frame, Lois throws the sock into the trash can with the words, "Oh, darn."

My mom laughed out loud when she read the strip. Of course, I didn't understand.

* * *

A thirteen-mile bike trail cuts diagonally through my village, running along an old Conrail track behind houses, between farms and swampland, and through a wooded section, dark and inviting. I can buy eggs on the trail. Organic produce. Local wine.

Deer occasionally pause on the trail, standing stock still and staring. Cardinals flit between branches of the trees. I pass other bikers, dog walkers, joggers, and a man on a recumbent bike who is missing one leg. I pass the pawpaw tree from which I have picked pear-sized fruits. I pass hickory trees, walnut trees, wild apple and crabapple trees, and, yes, I confess to having harvested the fruits from each of these as well.

On the trail, I smell wild grapes as they ripen and fade into autumn. I see the magnificent bald-hornets' nest, all whorls and arches, strength and industry.

Then too, there is the landfill, first detected by the smell, a smell so different and out of place in this arena of flowing water, blooming flowers and fields. The smell is overpowering. I pedal faster just to get past.

I hear the landfill next: the sound of gigantic dump trucks driving in and up a path flattened by too much use while turkey vultures and seagulls perch from cell phone towers surveying the scene below. 

Finally, just as I prepare to cross the street, the landfill comes into view.

It's a massive mountain, made up in part of what I've discarded. Every day as I pass, it reminds me of what I've thrown away; of how much I willingly waste.

I have oh, darned my way through too many things, discarding the worn for something shiny and new, pretending to have regrets when actually feeling relief and pleasure at the anticipation of a replacement. But the sheen wears off and eventually what is new becomes old and I am left to decide: Shall I repair it or shall I throw it away?

* * *

My mother had a darning egg. It was smooth and wooden and full of mystery and purpose. I darn with a rock tucked into the heel of the sock I'm repairing.

People would think I'm crazy if they knew I darned socks: It's simple enough to run to Target to pick up new ones, easy enough to throw away the old socks, mainly in good condition, save the one small hole worn through at the heel.

But every day as I bike, I'm confronted by my wastefulness.

And so I darn.

I darn badly, making mistakes as I go, frustrated with myself because girls as young as six once knew how to handle needle and thread.

But still, I darn.

* * *

Today, I understand that comic strip clipped and posted to the refrigerator. Every year, my mother made wardrobes for four children. Every year still, she makes jelly and jam, puts up peaches and pears, green beans and carrots and corn. My mom refinishes furniture. Braids rugs. Strips wallpaper. Makes quilts and, yes, even dishes. In making a home, my mom is industrious, doing for herself and her family what is too easily outsourced today. There's quite an honor in that, an honor that, for far too long, we've overlooked.

And so I darn.

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

In Commerce We Trust?

On Saturday, I went to a big box store to pick up a water filter and a birthday gift for my daughter. Total charge: $44.00.

"I don't need a bag," I told the cashier.

"Mom," my son nudged me. "You do need a bag. She'll see it."

Right. "Can I change my mind?"

The cashier nodded and slid my purchases into a bag before chasing them with the receipt.

My son pointed. "That's not going to hide anything."

"No," I agreed. "They probably use clear plastic so people don't steal anything." Other stores use similar tactics: garish orange PAID stickers on plastic milk jugs. RFID devices buried inside books. Security cameras...Mirrors...Alarms...

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Spring

We're not permitted to look at the dresses until we're assigned a consultant, someone who inquires with eyebrows raised about color and size and price, of course. "Ask my daughter," I say, pointing. "I don't pay for prom."

Technically that's incorrect: My husband and I kick in a hundred bucks towards the occasion. But between up-dos and nails; shoes and makeup; flowers and a limo; tickets and alterations for a made-in-China gown costing between two- and twelve hundred dollars, our contribution is laughable.

We select an armload of dresses and are directed to the bank of rooms at the back of the store. Our consultant misspells my daughter's name on a pink sticky note in the shape of a heart and affixes it to her dressing room door.

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