My father passed from this world when I was a young man. His legacy is mostly human, having prepared seven of us to roam the earth. He also left some words, in the form of witty rhyme in the style of Ogden Nash, an avocation that he adopted as his health betrayed him later in life. I will publish the collection someday. Otherwise, he left some odds and ends, but nothing of extreme note, rhyme or reason. His desk. Some miscellaneous remnants of his unfinished business, including, paradoxically, a few sales awards. I preserve one -- an engraved paperweight -- in a keepsake box. A few dusty bottles of ancient liquor (he didn’t drink a whole lot, but kept a few potent potables around for special occasions). Some WWI-era tools, mostly inherited from his father, a plumber who preferred his beer in quart bottles that never collected dust. A navy blue Olds Delta Eighty-Eight – bought used of course, a custom that I inherited. A wristwatch or two, or three. Some cheap clothing, much of it purchased in later years through consumer-grade mail order factories. Oh, and a few leftover kernels of magic corn – useless (it only makes reindeer fly). The man did not own a whole lot. Kids rarely appreciate what their parents live without.
After his passing, my mother sorted through this modest inventory, and she offered a few items to the kids as tokens. I had previously inherited some biology from my father, including his size ten and a half, EEE-width feet. So it seemed natural to settle on some shoes, in this case a well-worn pair of tan loafers with a vague moccasin vibe that seemed out of place in my dad’s closet. But there they were; I was determined to walk in my dad’s somewhat enigmatic footsteps, putting one foot in front of the other, literally if not figuratively. The shoes remain in my closet to this day, along with other less tangible ghosts.
Inheritance is a form of longevity, longevity a corollary of frugality, frugality stitched into the soul of a conscience fully mindful of the inescapable economics of life. In my garden, much of what I own is inherited. All of my three and four inch pots, which accommodate the final leg of seedlings’ spring journey to the garden, are saved from purchased plants. All of the six packs too, which are my preferred containers for indoor seed germination. Most of my trowels and shovels had prior owners. All of the welded wire fencing that I have snipped and twisted for years to meet specific critter control challenges? Salvaged from an old split rail fence. My raised bed containers? Inherited overage from a fiberglass factory. Chicken wire? Repurposed from a delivery of fieldstone. Plant markers? Inexpensive but greatly appreciated Christmas gifts. Perhaps those don’t count, but I reuse them every year by using a numbering system rather than plant names; each year has its own reference key scribbled on one of my antediluvian mini legal pads …inherited from an ancient past employer.
Frugality can be exasperating to innocent bystanders conditioned to the Ethos of the New and Disposable (The E.N.D.), but what it lacks in shiny veneer it recovers mightily in depth, comfort, reassurance and lore. My six-pack seed-starting containers are weathered old friends by now; eight of them fit neatly in a standard seed-starting tray, creating the perfect arena for forty eight “players”, as each new season begins. The teams enter the field as innocent, pee-wee league novices -- mere seeds, plebes, raw potential eager to play with the adults someday. The rules, the coaches, the boundaries seem so arbitrary and weathered at first. But they become second nature in no time, the well-worn field of play soon as much a shrine for the new generation as it was for its predecessors. In due time the new crop of acolytes moves on to larger fields and destinies, grateful for the opportunity. Mission accomplished, frugal old guard!
When a six-pack finally begins to crumble and tear, I thank it for its service and mourn the loss. But the particularly sturdy ones can last twenty years or more, winking at me each winter from a shelf in the garage, reminding me of down and dirty rendezvous in the months ahead. As a kid, I would save egg cartons, which served as a kind of required apprenticeship into frugal gardening. In the real world, those egg cartons function more as object lessons – they produce more fond memories than healthy seedlings. But they do kick start the line of thinking. It has been said that “life always finds a way”. Gardeners do too. And we learn this lesson early. Respect, leverage and conserve what you have. Learn what works and then extract every bit of value and service life from it that you can manage. As these trusted friends age, do appreciate and honor their service, treasuring the connections and conduits that they route to your earlier self.
Like the egg cartons, my father’s tan shoes are more symbolic than practical. I’ve worn them two or three times in thirty years. They mostly remind me of my past, my roots, the things that made me me, for better and for worse. But the connection is not simply mental or abstract. I can see and touch them. I can tie the laces that he tied. I can feel the contours of his feet against my own. For a moment, he is with me again. And as my age steadily approaches his at the time these shoes changed hands, I have a deeper understanding of his struggles, concerns and achievements.
Physical connections to the past matter. Show me an old guitar player, and I will show you someone who owns at least one ancient guitar that is rarely played or touched but can never be set free. The emotional ties are too strong, the memories too valuable. Raising the instrument from its case, tuning it and gravitating to an enduring song from the deep past is a liturgy of sorts, a nearly sacramental rite. Show me an old gardener, and I will show you someone with a favored houseplant, or even just a pot, that conjures memories and creates continuity between vast passages of time that would otherwise evaporate into disconnected, disjointed realities, fading without support into permanent quiescence.
The E.N.D. is a perilous place indeed.
It threatens to siphon a central well
of meaning and sustenance from our lives.
Unmoored from foundations trusty and true,
to wisdom preceding we bid our adieu.
It bleaches the color from memory
and wipes away lessons, exploits and feats.
The E.N.D. is a perilous place indeed.
Divide, dissolve, and conquer. Vanquishing
substance of yore, essence of days gone by.
It seduces, conflates and subjugates.
Fragments, confusion, detritus remain
Worthless. Abandoned. Now yours to sustain.
While claiming to be your bestie always.
The E.N.D. is a perilous place indeed.
Physical connections to the past ground us for an electric future.