RECYCLING AT ITS BEST

The cuffs were frayed, frayed almost through and the thin red stripe on the cuff was almost faded away. The zipper had been repaired, replaced even, with a zipper that was just a bit too long and the ends had been folded in, the teeth scratching at my chin if I wasn't careful. I loved that jacket.

I loved that jacket because it had been Dale's. He was my cousin, the one who hated milk. I loved his jacket because I loved him and admired his perseverance while he sat with two glasses of milk in front of him that had to be consumed before he could play, a torture test of sorts. He never won. I wondered why he didn't just drink the milk with meatloaf and mashed potatoes or with cookies. It was one of life's puzzles.

There were many days when I refused to take the jacket off when I came indoors, refused and stomped my feet and folded my arms. One of the few battles I won. Maybe the only battle. I wore that jacket until my arms were much too long and the waist of the jacket crept up my torso and I found myself wishing I wouldn't grow.

Hand-me-downs, bags of surprises that made an ordinary day special. Rummaging through the pile of treasures from a family with girls slightly older than my sister and me, made me feel like a very lucky girl. Hand-me-downs were recycling before recycling had a name. Hand-me-downs were recyling at its very best. The chain was well established in our circle of family friends. Our house was the last stop. Growing up on a farm provided enough opportunities for scuffs and frays and rips, so that the usefulness of the clothes found its end and I never had to part with those items that were on my favourite list.

I dragged Dale's jacket around for years, kept it as a shrine to childhood, that glorious time when labels meant nothing and donning a beyond-worn-out jacket with stains and elbows out made me feel capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound, made Dale feel close enough to touch.

I have a box of "things" that my daughters wore when they were little, clothes I can't part with, can't recycle. I stopped the chain before it became one. This bag of clothing is like grade one artwork or a mother's day card. I can picture Aimee with her four-year-old body in her gymnastic suit, twirling and bending and imagining all things, trotting along behind me while I coached children in gymnastics. I can hold the fabric against my cheek and the twenty-six years vanish. Laurie played the piano in her huge cloth diaper and rubber pants, one sock on and one off, her eyes wide with a huge smile, her little fingers gently pressing the keys, the sound gentle and undisturbing, comforting even. The sound of the rubber pants now is much like the music then. Thea and her little yellow dress that became a top that became something too small that I had to sneak out of her room at night to wash and put back before morning. I see three-year-old Samantha toddling across the yard in her fleece-lined denim jacket, a hand-me-down, with her arms out-stretched, wanting me to save her, when I still could.

by W A Stewart - Nov 23/09