Waste Not, Want Not

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Waste Not, Want Not: The Cycle (And Recycle) of Life

By James H. O'Keefe M.D.

I grew up in the '60s with practical parents who were children of the Great Depression. My father was the king of re-cycling before they had a name for it, when it was simply considered 'being thrifty.' Having his old shoes re-soled and reconditioned made Dad happier than buying a pair of new shoes. For more than 40 years, rather than waste gasoline driving, he walked the 2-mile round trip to and from work. He never threw a returnable can or bottle in the garbage, nor would he walk past one on the road without stopping to pick it up.

My mother, who today remains as down-to-earth and practical as ever, used to scrub aluminum foil clean after cooking on it so she could reuse it again. Cotton diapers were washed and used time after time, growing softer for the wear. Their marriage was strong, their dreams focused, and their values rock solid. Most of their best friends lived in the neighborhood and they would get together daily for coffee in the mid-day or a drink at happy hour. I can picture them now: Dad in Bermuda shorts, T-shirt and a Minnesota Twins baseball hat; Mom in a house dress, baby in one arm and dishtowel in the other.

It was an age during which broken things were fixed rather than trashed. The black-and-white television, the screen door, the hand-me-down clothes with patches over the knees and elbows - stuff was made 'almost good as new,' not just discarded and replaced. A single bath tub of water could get six children squeaky clean; even if the water going down the drain was pretty dirty by the time the last kid climbed out of the tub. Leftovers were re-heated; soap and toilet paper were rationed.

'Waste not, want not' was the motto of a generation who had lived through times of scarcity and felt the quiet desperation of sometimes wanting for needs as basic as food and shelter. Their frugal ways at times drove me crazy - all that mending, reusing, sharing, and conserving - sometimes I just longed for the luxury of being wasteful. Waste implied prosperity; being able to discard things meant you were confident there would always be more.

Then my father died, and on that cold January night, I was hit with the anguish of understanding that sometimes there isn't any more. Sometimes, the possessions we care about most become used up and disappear...never to return.

So we need to love and care for the people and things in our world. Support them when they are weak, mend relationships when they are broken, heal wounds that still fester, and safeguard our blessings. Conserve and cherish them, hold them close to our hearts. This is the case for 'sometimes rocky' marriages and old cars, for kids with dreadful report cards, dogs with weak bladders and bad hips, and aging parents and grandparents. We keep them because they are worth it, and because they make our lives worth living.

Our planet too needs our love, respect, and nurturing. We are given the privilege of living in this paradise for one short lifetime. Yet the future of our children's children and the Earth itself depends upon us preserving our world so that we leave it as good as we found it when we inherited it from our ancestors.

The most important things in life can't be replaced, like the beauty and harmony of the nature; like a parent or a sibling, a child or a grandparent, a special pet, or a friend and classmate who might be half a continent away. These things bring meaning and pleasure to our lives; they make our existence precious. So we try to stay close even when we are separated by hundreds or thousands of miles. Family and good friends are kind of like the stars in the sky - although you can't always see them, they are always out there, shining in the darkness, helping us navigate the world, bringing warmth and light to our lives.

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