Learning from our Grandmothers

Think for a moment of your grandmother, or someone in your life who represents love and warmth and times gone by. In my mind’s eye, I see both my grandmothers sitting in their respective glider rocking chairs, at their kitchen windows. One kitchen has pink walls and smells of brown bread, the other a basket of knitting and a collection of salt and pepper shakers along the cupboard tops.

I recently read a great article from The Good Trade called “Want A More Sustainable Closet? Shop Like Your Grandmother.” I shared it on Facebook, and a dear friend—who happens to have her Master’s of Social Work in Gerontology—commented, pointing out that the article highlights a few of the many ways we can learn from our elders. This observation had me thinking of the many other ways, above and beyond clothing consumption, that both my grandmothers lived “sustainably” before the sustainability movement was a conscious decision.

My mum’s mum is a near perfect example. She kept a seasonal vegetable garden, canning her own vegetables for the winter months; she baked bread and rolls with ingredients from a stocked pantry; she made clothing for herself and her family, and used the fabric scraps to make quilts, ensuring nothing went to waste. On occasions when clothing was purchased new, it was an investment.

Many of these practices have now reemerged, as part of the sustainability movement: eating locally and seasonally, choosing zero waste alternatives, and saying no to fast-fashion are all huge parts of environmental preservation (and, while sustainability might not have been our primary motivation, how many of us took up bread baking during the coronavirus shut-down?!). Today, choosing these sustainable options is now a conscious lifestyle choice.

The question remains, then, where down the line did our lifestyles change so dramatically, veering away from the more sustainable lifestyles of older generations? I think the key difference is our understanding of the value inherit in our possessions. In recent years, the perfect storm of mass production, cheap goods in the global marketplace, and the internet have come together to forever change how we shop. With the click of a button or the tap of a finger, many of us can buy pretty much anything (whether or not we can afford it), and have it delivered to our door—sometimes as soon as that very same day. This ease and convenience in acquisition has resulted in a consumerist “throwaway culture” that places no value on our possessions; why have something repaired when it can be tossed and replaced immediately?

The Good Trade article draws attention to the value the author’s grandmother placed on her clothing purchases. She bought versatile clothing of high quality, built to last. She did not buy in abundance, and she repaired her clothing in order to optimize wear. No doubt, the concept of buying a cheap shirt to wear out a few times and then toss—my shameful practice with “clubbing” outfits throughout the first year or two of undergrad—would be totally foreign to her. She recognized the value inherit in investing in and maintaining her clothing. This practice does not mean she had more money to spare on clothing, but instead that she chose with care when and where to spend her money.

Investing in quality is something that I’ve struggled with in the past, even at times when I could afford to do so. An “investment purchase” always seemed superfluous, never mind the fact that I could and would buy three or four middling quality items for the same amount of money. My past shoe collection is the perfect example.

It wasn’t until I moved into the refurbished old Hartt Shoe Factory, which closed in 1999 and was subsequently converted into apartments, that I learned that both my grandmother and my aunt (on my dad’s side this time) worked in the shoe factory when it was operational. One afternoon, my dad mentioned bringing my grandmother over to take a look at the building. My eyes fell to my shoe rack. I immediately wanted to tidy away the majority of shoes that, upon acquiring, I thought were “smart purchases” (i.e. not so cheap that they’d fall apart after some wear, but not expensive enough to be worth repairing). The only two pairs that passed my internal scrutiny of Hartt Shoe Factory Worthiness were a pair of Jeffrey Campbell boots, bought in New York years earlier, and my well-worn Blundstones.

In comparison to the thought of the shoes that my grandmother made by hand in that very same building, my collection seemed needlessly abundant, and yet completely disposable—an understanding reinforced by the fact that now I can’t even remember what was on the shelf. These shoes have all been thrown away throughout the intervening years. I still have both the JC boots and my Blundstones, though. Today, I make a better effort to invest in quality over quantity. I’m still working on it, but I try to ask the questions “how was this made?” and “who made it?” before buying anything. I believe that an item bought should be an item kept; a gift to yourself (you deserve it!), in which you find value.

Indeed, throwaway culture persists, in part, due to our separation from the human stories behind the things that we buy. In a global economy, we are so far removed from the people who have made our clothing, or our electronics, or the items in our homes. And yet, when we look around ourselves and consider the items we value most, without fail there is a story attached.

When I was ten, my family went to PEI during summer vacation. At a tourist shop, my parents let my brother, sister, and I choose a gift for ourselves. I chose a small stuffed bear. The bear on display wore a blue and red sweater, which I wanted for my bear, too. The sweater was sold separately, though, and one item each was the deal. I was disappointed, and it probably showed (i.e. like a true gemini, I played up this disappointment to resemble deep emotional devastation). In response, my dad suggested that I ask my grandmother to knit a sweater for the bear.

I wrote my grandmother a letter, asking if she would “please knit my teddy a sweater, and here’s how big, and these colours please, thank you, love Katie.” I still have the bear, in his slightly too big, blue knitted sweater with the red stripes. There’s nothing very special about the bear itself—as a child, I had a multitude of stuffed animals, each taking their turn in the coveted spot of favourite of the week. What’s special about the bear, the reason I’ve kept it when most of my other stuffed animals were donated long ago, is the little knitted sweater that he wears.

I believe this bear and his sweater are evidence that the value we place in our possessions is correlated to the memories and experiences associated with the objects. Whether it be encompassed in a gift from a loved one or a gift to yourself, these are the things we keep and hold dear, possessions that we take care of and repair. And eventually, these are the items that we pass along to others.

I believe these lessons from our grandmothers prove that abundance is not synonymous with more objects, with consuming as much as we can; true abundance, is measured by experiences that create our story, grounded in her story.

Warmly,

KP