The History of Recycling

That's me . . . with my blanket. I took it with me everywhere. My Mother would occasionally wash it and trim the frayed edges so it didn't look so ragged. By the time I gave it to my oldest son as a newborn, it was much smaller, more-of-a-grey-that-used-to-be-blue and nearly transparent with wear - but it was so incredibly soft. As the satin edging disintegrated and sloughed away, the protected color, a pretty light aqua-blue, could be remembered. It was a popular color in the 60s.
Those first versions of Tupperware were that color too. Like my blanket, the color faded until they were left to be consigned to the sand box with their missing lids and cracked rims. And like many items during those years, they were never thrown away, simply removed to a new and lesser caste of use until they were invisible. Eventually, those abandoned Tupperware containers made their way to the barn where they were put to use and miscellaneous cartridges for nails, washers, half-used paint sticks, bits of still usable sand paper and used razor blades that might be good for something - one day.
My parents didn't throw away anything. My younger brother wore the same clothing that both my older sister and I had. Shovels got new handles or sometimes had their handles mended with a few screws and a bandage of electrical tape. Broken windows received one new pane of glass and new glazing. Bikes provided endless opportunities to make good. They had patched tires, new seats, recycled brake pads . . . Not that my parents didn't provide us with new things. Of course they did. But once they did, that 'thing' was never ever tossed aside. As well, 'new' didn't necessarily mean 'brand-new-never-been-used' Instead, it meant, 'new-to-us.' I still have and use everyday the dresser my Dad bought me when I was eight. My son uses the same bedroom set that my grandmother bought during the war - when there were no factories left making furniture. And the bread pans in my kitchen were my Dad's mothers. Those old, thin pans work better than the new, heavy-duty, improved (and expensive) versions I bought for myself years ago by quite a bit.
Not everything was a hand me down. We weren't a proud family. Much of what we came by, we did by way of the curb, aka, the neighbor's trash pile. Today, right now, I have a solid walnut, intricately carved, rectangular, pedestal side table that sits in my front hall to receive mail, keys and other items that simply have to be put down immediately when you get home. I found it by the curb on Shiawassee Road while I was walking home from grade school one day. I couldn't have been more than ten years old. It wasn't broken or damaged in any way. It's only fault was that it was unwanted. We got a lot of our 'things' this way.
Most days, surrounded by all the items that have come to me in reverse, I don't see their histories or even think about how many people might have known and used them before I did. But they must have been.
I am just as certain that my son never knew that his blanket used to be his Mother's as I am that the same blanket was someone else's before it was mine. My parents would have never let me drag around a 'good' blanket. It wouldn't have been right.