When I was young, we saved everything—the last blob in the peanut butter jar, the rubber bands on the newspaper, TV dinner trays, S & H stamps, even aluminum foil (if it was clean). We did that because: a) we might need it again; b) it was wasteful not to; and c) children in India were starving.
This penurious upbringing has had an effect on my entire life. I’m still trying to decide if it’s more positive or negative. There’s ambiguity about who coined the phrase “Waste not, want not”, but I know that my mother wore it out. I was taught that buying something used was just as good (if not better) than buying new because it was less expensive, usually worked just as well, and extended the usefulness of the item. Wearing hand-me-downs was a given. (My sister, a millionaire, still shops in thrift stores.) On some level I thought of our family as less fortunate.
Then came the dawn of the age of recycling, and suddenly I was in the vanguard. I was no longer poor, I was ecological (what a lovely word!). Goodwill stores and garage sales became hip. Used became vintage. We started bragging about how many miles we put on that ol’ car. Trash had value. I remember taking my kids and three garbage bags of aluminum cans to the recycling center and getting our $7.75, usually spent on ice cream or candy on the way home. For awhile, we even had one of those can crushers in our garage.
Alas, the Age of Recycling has passed as quickly as the Age of Penury. We have entered into a new era: the Consumer Economy. By buying, we are helping everybody. (Then why is the gap between the 1%’ers and the rest of us growing ever larger?) New is always better than used. (A personal conflict of mine: if I buy my favorite author’s book used, he doesn’t get a penny of that, does he?) As we are making America great again, our recycled catchphrase is: You get what you pay for. Our credit history is more important than our carbon footprint. We judge on externals: our looks, our cars, our houses, our jobs, our education, our social media presence—apparently, only God looks at the heart anymore. Our leaders bury their heads and talk about tax cuts instead of climate change. The world of commerce has discovered an entrance into our private lives and is learning how to manipulate from within.
To interrupt my own rant: there are tons of people all over the planet who are dedicating themselves to combatting the ills that are besetting our world. I read about it, I see it on TV, I observe it in my church, and I hear about it every day from the people I meet and know and talk to. The world needs more of these people—there can’t be enough.
I believe there is a call to save the planet. It’s not new; it is ageless. But the call is reverberating in these times, and the people are growing, in numbers and in wisdom. One of the keys is saving: lives and resources and goods and nature. The result of not saving is waste. The symptoms of waste are: excess (always have more than you need) – the landfilling of America – the plasticizing of our oceans – China’s refusal to take our trash (they’ve got enough of their own) – the shrinking of our resources – the despoiling of our public lands – the cheapening of quality – personal bankruptcy (financial, moral, spiritual). That’s quite a rap sheet.
I’m not hopeless, but I’m worried. Do we enjoy a better quality of life than our parents? Most of us would say yes. Do our children enjoy a better quality of life than we did? Life expectancy—certainly; contentment—not so much. I’d probably split that one half and half. Will my six granddaughters enjoy a better quality of life than I do? I want to believe it, but I don’t. Not unless we make America green again. The bottom line of saving: it is a requisite of preserving our planet.
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