Do all people have the notion that they are somehow different from everyone else? Unique, special? I think so. And that makes us all the same, right? Hmmm…
I’ve thought from childhood that I was different from my siblings, for instance. They all four wore glasses; I didn’t, and I’m the only one with green eyes. I was probably the best student in school, preferring to read or practice my cursive (honest!) on a rainy day, and am the only one with at least a bachelor’s degree. In many ways, I’m just weirder than they are. I think they are more likely to prepare and eat traditional foods and to be suspicious of stuff like granola (especially home-made) and cutting down on sugar and eating less meat and avoiding prepared foods. If I suggested intermittent fasting as a boon to one’s health, my comments would be met with skepticism. While we all agree that taking less pharmaceuticals than our parents, every one of them has daily meds. I’m goofy enough to not even take regular vitamins. But enough comparison; I’ve always been weird and I’m getting it down to a science.
Most people throw their clean, wet clothes in the dryer and forget about them for an hour or so (or longer if they don’t mind wrinkles). Instead, I’ve been using outdoor clotheslines and indoor drying racks nearly exclusively since 1989 or so, and as often as possible before that. I was steeped in it. When our family lived in Potwin, we didn’t even have a dryer. Laundry was done on Mondays and clotheslines outside filled, weather permitting. When the weather didn’t permit, Mom strung lines throughout the house and we had a wet sauna effect with condensation on all the windows and ice if it was especially cold outside. Sister Nancy and I were tasked with bringing in dry laundry and folding it after school; Mom hung it before she went to work, probably down at Dad’s welding shop. I know the benefits: adding humidity to one’s house in the winter, reducing electrical use by avoiding the second-greatest energy user (the dryer is second to HVAC equipment), the brightening effects the sun can have especially on white fabrics, and bringing the sunshiny smell in from the clothesline. Now it has become a point of pride. It’s not necessarily that I feel better than anyone who uses a clothes dryer; I just enjoy the benefits and am stubborn enough to embrace the added time and inconvenience.
We children drank fresh, raw milk as much as possible growing up. When we lived in Potwin, Dad did part-time chores for a farmer just out of town. He milked their cow and brought in their sheep, among other responsibilities, I am sure but can’t list. He brought that milk home and we kids loved it. When we moved to the family farm, Dad got a cow and we had lots of milk to deal with. (I have to explain right here, that said cow’s original name was Blossom, but our adorable little brother couldn’t remember that. He knew it was something to do with flowers, so he called her Tulip. And goodness knows, everything the cute li’l youngest in the family does or says is precious. Am I right?! So her name was Tulip.) It was our girls’ job to strain and refrigerate the milk morning and evening when Dad brought in the big galvanized bucket. When it had risen, Mom skimmed off the cream, kept the half-and-half skimmings as “cereal milk” and skim milk for us to drink. Whenever there was enough to be worth the effort (maybe once a week?), she got out the electric churn and made butter, which she then washed with cold water to remove any buttermilk, salted, and made into round patties about four inches in diameter on plastic lids, with decorative marks on top made with her butter paddle (’cause who wants boring butter?), until they were frozen, then stored in bread sacks in the freezer. I don’t know what Tulip ate that was different from the poor bovines the dairy industry uses, but her butter was yellow. Not that pale, pasty off-white color that passes for industrial butter; I’m talking the color of daffodils. Did I mention her name was Tulip? And speaking of what she ate, sometimes the milk came in smelling horrible. We kids would turn up our noses because one taste would cure you, too! Dad explained that she got into “wild onions.” It didn’t stink like onions; it just smelled and tasted awful! Interestingly, the cream didn’t have that disgusting smell. Once the cream had risen, Mom skimmed it off and used it just like any other. The milk, however, went back out, as a treat for the hogs, who obviously didn’t have such delicate constitutions as we kids did.
(Did you think that milk thing was a rabbit trail? Ha!) We have been blessed for the last maybe ten years with raw milk available from the dairy around the corner. It comes in plastic gallon jugs, just like second-string, grocery story milk. However, once poured into a wide-mouth, glass gallon jar, that nectar-of-the-gods cream rises and can be skimmed off. We buy the insipid, grocery store butter, because the cream is best used in coffee. I drink a lot of skim milk, which is part of my weirdness; I don’t know many adults who admit they do too. Another weird thing is that we make our own yogurt in the oven. Easy and cheap. I like that!
Never having plenteous financial funding has further augmented my weird tendencies. For example, I don’t like to shop, which I understand lots of women find entertaining. Owing to a predisposition against spending money or to the necessity of avoiding bankruptcy, I just would rather not buy stuff. And I like to find interesting ways to make what I need from what I have. So what do you do with cast-off socks? You know, the ones with holes (’cause who darns socks? Oh yeah. I’ve done that.) or the ones whose mate has up and R U N N O F T. (Did I mention that I love the movie, Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?) Well, you should save them up and make them into something useful, like a braided rug. Don’t worry that it will weigh 30 pounds when it’s big enough for your bathroom floor. You’ll have a warm feeling inside that you saved the planet by keeping those 30 pounds of socks out of the landfill. You’re welcome.
And what about bags from pet and livestock feed? With a little cutting and sewing, they turn into fantastic totes and shopping bags (ok, I do have to get groceries sometimes!) that last a long time. I even went through a phase where I made crocheted rugs out of old t-shirts. Strips 3/4 inches wide can be stretched into sharn (shirt yarn) and made into balls; the rugs need only simple crocheting with a Q-size hook. They have the advantage that crumbs, dirt and such fall through the holes and are contained until you are ready to sweep them up. They have the added advantage that they’re free. When you take on projects like this, everyone you know soon donates their old t-shirts to your inventory, and second-hand stores have scads that they can’t sell. You might even know someone who is storing them in boxes in the garage. (Do you have my phone number?)
