Ode to a T

My dad and brother wore white T-shirts under their button down oxfords in the sixties.  My brother even wore those T's at Idlewild Swim Club, because his skin was fair and my mother pre-invented UV protection clothing by insisting on the undershirt, in the hazy East Coast sun.  When these BVD's wore thin, got a hole or yellowed - I am not sure what my mother's criteria was - they became rags.  For dusting, saturating with Pledge, attacking the oven.

She didn't leave them intact.  She'd notch them, but I can't remember how...  her teeth?  Scissors?  When finally able to grab both sides she'd rip the fabric in two, and repeat the process until the desired size of tattered T was achieved.  I remember that tearing sound.  The insistent grating noise of cotton weaving torn asunder.   In retrospect I think my mom enjoyed the auditory output of her efforts.  She certainly did it enough.

Those shreds would be used for household tasks until they were deemed worthy of the trash bin.  Looking back I can say my mom was reducing, reusing, recycling.  But that chat didn't exist in the sixties.  Instead she was being frugal, in a manner I am sure she inherited from her immigrant mother.  With more thought to money than the earth Bubbes, Grand-Meres and Omas utilized this thrifty technique out of a sense of practicality.  Not social justice.

Maybe having a partial  piece of my dad's clothing conjured images of her at-work husband and brought comfort in her suburban ennui.  Perhaps violently ripping something he wore pleasured her; gave an outlet to emotions she could not express in a post-war, pre-women's lib society.

In many ways I too practice frugality.  I've been known to use an old shirt for a rag, a holey sock for a dust mitt.  Am I emulating the forewomen of my family, or protecting Mother Nature?  I frequently remind myself it is OK to not choose.  In this instance I can be both environmental and sentimental.