Essence column: Possible Eve of destruction creates hoarder
[2008-5-19]
Tag: Striped Towels
Malls, telephones, the daily dose of "All My Children," gas stations, Dairy Queen, air conditioning, grocery stores, drive-through banking — all of these comforts as we know them would vanish.
And if I were one of the human beings left on earth, I reasoned, at least I could forage for myself in the woods using my well-developed (ahem) survival skills — dig roots and eat nuts and berries, boil water along river banks, eat fish out of Long Lake, hunt squirrels, steep bark for willow tea and weave skirts out of dried grass.
The seeds of doom had been planted in me while growing up next door to Mr. Lange. Snaggle-toothed, beer in hand no matter what time of day, wearing one of those yellowed sleeveless undershirts old(er) men wear, he'd take us kids daily into his basement bomb shelter for an update on any minor changes or additions.
He was harmless, with his expired canned goods stacked to the ceiling, boxes of farmer matches and giant jugs full of Mogen David. He reminded us we needn't worry — he'd make room for our family when the "commie pinko" enemies dropped the big one on us.
As I grew older and the Vietnam War waged on, I became convinced my parents' generation had wrecked absolutely everything and it was only a matter of time before the earth opened and swallowed us up. Except me of course. I would be left to suffer without a hair dryer, make-up, Sun-In, Cousins subs or the next issue of Rolling Stone magazine.
Like a prophet, Barry McGuire, before his conversion to born-again Christian, was heard belting out everywhere: "But ya tell me over and over and over again, my friend, ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction."
Hopefully this long lead-in explains why, when I set up my own household, I began to horde, no, rather sustain, some eccentric, yet arrested emergency stockpiles.
Overstuffed hefty bags were filled with knotted clumps of thread-bare towels, faded sheets, lumpy mattress pads, and hand-me-down bedspreads and blankets I couldn't part with after they served their purpose.
This seemed rational in case the heat went out… forever.
Most of these textile treasures had been passed down from generation to generation: cotton pillow cases given as wedding gifts long ago, their edges hand-embroidered; striped beach towels from when we were kids and spent a week each summer at a lake cottage; a chenille bedspread purchased in the 1960s from one of the many outdoor stands (operated by Indians) that lined the roadway to the Wisconsin Dells.
Reading (like a Bible) Steven King's post-apocalyptic epic "The Stand," in which roaming groups of people and individuals continued the battle of good vs. evil inspired the start of another bizzaro collection: Popsicle sticks and candle stubs. To this day the bottom drawer of an old chest of drawers in what we call the furnace room is filled with the wooden sticks from every Popsicle, Dreamsicle, fudge bar, Dilly Bar, or ice-cream bar my family ever ate.
Coupled with a giant meltdown of all the candle butts stored in boxes…well just imagine the illumination this could bring to the darkness after the destruction, or deluge, or alien invasion or comet that comes crashing from the sky.
Don't ask me why I still have it all, but in a pinch I'm ready to illuminate the world with Popsicle-stick candlelight.
Malls, telephones, the daily dose of "All My Children," gas stations, Dairy Queen, air conditioning, grocery stores, drive-through banking — all of these comforts as we know them would vanish.
And if I were one of the human beings left on earth, I reasoned, at least I could forage for myself in the woods using my well-developed (ahem) survival skills — dig roots and eat nuts and berries, boil water along river banks, eat fish out of Long Lake, hunt squirrels, steep bark for willow tea and weave skirts out of dried grass.
The seeds of doom had been planted in me while growing up next door to Mr. Lange. Snaggle-toothed, beer in hand no matter what time of day, wearing one of those yellowed sleeveless undershirts old(er) men wear, he'd take us kids daily into his basement bomb shelter for an update on any minor changes or additions.
He was harmless, with his expired canned goods stacked to the ceiling, boxes of farmer matches and giant jugs full of Mogen David. He reminded us we needn't worry — he'd make room for our family when the "commie pinko" enemies dropped the big one on us.
As I grew older and the Vietnam War waged on, I became convinced my parents' generation had wrecked absolutely everything and it was only a matter of time before the earth opened and swallowed us up. Except me of course. I would be left to suffer without a hair dryer, make-up, Sun-In, Cousins subs or the next issue of Rolling Stone magazine.
Like a prophet, Barry McGuire, before his conversion to born-again Christian, was heard belting out everywhere: "But ya tell me over and over and over again, my friend, ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction."
Hopefully this long lead-in explains why, when I set up my own household, I began to horde, no, rather sustain, some eccentric, yet arrested emergency stockpiles.
Overstuffed hefty bags were filled with knotted clumps of thread-bare towels, faded sheets, lumpy mattress pads, and hand-me-down bedspreads and blankets I couldn't part with after they served their purpose.
This seemed rational in case the heat went out… forever.
Most of these textile treasures had been passed down from generation to generation: cotton pillow cases given as wedding gifts long ago, their edges hand-embroidered; striped beach towels from when we were kids and spent a week each summer at a lake cottage; a chenille bedspread purchased in the 1960s from one of the many outdoor stands (operated by Indians) that lined the roadway to the Wisconsin Dells.
Reading (like a Bible) Steven King's post-apocalyptic epic "The Stand," in which roaming groups of people and individuals continued the battle of good vs. evil inspired the start of another bizzaro collection: Popsicle sticks and candle stubs. To this day the bottom drawer of an old chest of drawers in what we call the furnace room is filled with the wooden sticks from every Popsicle, Dreamsicle, fudge bar, Dilly Bar, or ice-cream bar my family ever ate.
Coupled with a giant meltdown of all the candle butts stored in boxes…well just imagine the illumination this could bring to the darkness after the destruction, or deluge, or alien invasion or comet that comes crashing from the sky.
Don't ask me why I still have it all, but in a pinch I'm ready to illuminate the world with Popsicle-stick candlelight.
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