On being green

I guess we were green before our time.

Down on the farm, we recycled anything that might be useful. Clothing was handed down from eldest to youngest, knees and elbows patched and sewn with fresh buttons. Some of the other kids teased us at school, but we maintained our equanimity based on our innate sense of exceptional efficiency. Any surplus clothing or shoes was boxed and shipped, once or twice a year, to exotic, far-flung relatives in Sicily. I don’t know if they were teased or admired, but at least they had good American denim for school, patched as it may have been.

Vegetable peelings and table scraps (meat and fats excluded, but including eggshells), went into the compost heap. When properly tended, the compost literally combusted, but unhurriedly, and reduced its contents to a rich, black soil, populated by enormous quantities of ravenous red earthworms whose effluence enriched that soil. Any excess meats and fats, not suitable for compost, were supplemental delicacies for the farm dogs who were responsible for rodent control, protecting the chickens from varmints, and general security and hilarity.

When baking foods in the oven, any other item that might hitch a ride took advantage of the heat. For instance, a pot roast bakes for 3-4 hours, and several loaves of bread could share the last 30 minutes. A fabulous book expounding this principle is “How to Cook a Wolf”, by M.F.K. Fisher, a prolific food writer of the mid-twentieth century who offered instruction in efficiency and good cheer to a war-weary America.

Bottled soda pop was a luxury. Kool-Aid made from our own, delicious well water and the powdered mix was a favorite beverage. And Kool-Aid poured into ice cube trays with popsicle sticks inserted yielded tasty, cooling, frozen treats a few hours later. No air conditioning in summer, but broad porches welcomed picnic-style suppers in the waning heat of the day as the sun surrendered to the night, crickets serenading loudly, and heat lightening flickering on the distant horizon.

Lights were turned off when not needed. The upstairs rooms were not heated in winter, but thick layers of blankets provided more than adequate warmth. In summer, cooling was provided only by ventilation from the open, screened windows.

Finally, sternly instructed to sleep, at least one wayward child eagerly consumed the transportation and mystery of good books, under the blankets, burning up a flashlight’s D-cell batteries.

In spite of that, overall, we were deeply green. We just didn’t know it.