Kara Henderson shares her memories of her grandmother and the promise she made to be more eco-friendly.
Folding laundry, I became transfixed on a sock. “It should be smaller,” I told myself. I have an average shoe size for an American woman. But my footprint, I suspect, is anything but. The sock was pulled from a hulking beast of an electric dryer that’s stacked atop an equally hulking washer. Who am I fooling with my eco-friendly detergent sheets?
My mind travels back to my grandma. Raising seven children in the country, laundry day was precisely that: a whole day—maybe more—of washing by hand. My father was the middle child. He spoke of fetching water from the spring house and storing food in the cool brook. I have two of his World War II ration books. On the cover of one is a handwritten seven above the word “age.” The other has unused stamps for sugar and coffee, among others. A sentence implores, “If you don’t need it, don’t buy it,” the “don’t buy it” in bold, italicized and all-uppercase font.
I remember Grandma sewing quilts with scraps and cooking in the kitchen saving the fat. I remember sermons playing on the radio and the voices of four generations spilling through her house at Sunday dinners. But mostly I remember her smile, and how it never left her face, through the highs and the lows. What’s your secret, Grandma? If only I had asked. Though, the ration books may hold clues. That and her name: Fern, like the plant.
I promised her I’ll do better, follow her steps and shrink my footprint on her Earth. My elderly cat joins me, convalescing his stiff joints amid the warm laundry, which brings a smile to my face. One Grandma Fern would be proud of. With a Perspective, I’m Kara Henderson.