Catlin went to a dressage horse camp outside of Saranac Lake, New York every summer from the time she was 10-11 years old until she was 15-16 years old. Her birthday fell in the middle of the camp session, so she changed ages between drop-off and pick-up each year. That rustic Adirondack camp was a tradition for our whole family, and Al and I often vacationed alone for a few days before our family vacation began at the end of camp.
One year, I decided I wanted to do some mountain stream wading. Al and I stopped in a cheap dollar-store type shop in Saranac Lake and picked up a couple of bath towels for our feet and legs. I like my towels to be a medium weight rough terry, preferably with ridges. The pale mint green and pale petal pink towels fit the bill perfectly, and I decided to throw them in my suitcase to bring home. I figured at a couple of bucks apiece, they might last me for one season.
That was approximately 25 years ago. I just hung up the mint green one after tonight’s shower.
I looked for towels as great as these two for all these years. Never have I found their equal. At their advanced age, they show no sign of thinning. Their appearance, however, is quite another matter. A quarter of a century of daily use, a couple of spins through the washer/dryer each week, and the continued discoloration from minerals in the water have turned them pretty unrecognizable when compared to the originals. In fact, I’m not always sure which one used to be pink and which one used to be green. They are both now just kind of a light, dingy beige color. They look pretty danged disreputable, to tell the honest truth.
The first time Mike laid eyes on one, he tried to throw it away. Nope. In Texas, it was okay. Our bathroom was an en suite, upstairs in the master suite. No one saw them except us. But here in this much older home in Arkansas, we chose a downstairs bedroom, and there is no master bath. We share the one across the hall with any visitors.
Every time we straightened up before people came to visit, Mike would tell me to hide those towels. He said that people would think he couldn’t afford to buy me a decent towel! Even freshly laundered, he refused to touch them. He simply couldn’t understand why I – the one who tossed an article of clothing at the first sign of wear – would continue to use something so decrepit. But use them I did – and I still do so today. (But I do hide them now when company comes!)
I cleaned out Mama’s cedar chest about ten years ago. In a box, still wrapped in tissue paper with a card, was a gorgeous set of deep rose towels she and Daddy received for their wedding in the early 1950’s. Never used. I immediately washed them and hung them in the bathroom. I’m happy to say those 70-year-old towels are still going strong – and they still look great.
There is something timeless and intimate about linens. Our beds are decorated with handmade quilts that Mike and I collected and others that were passed down through my family. Some are so old they are more batting than quilt, but we treasured those all the more. Antique throws decorate our chairs, and I still use antique lace and crocheted linen doilies for fun when I decorate for various seasons. I’ve collected old kitchen towels from almost every female relative I’ve lost who was close to me. They aren’t new – the more faded the better. Each piece of linen bears witness to their daily lives. Meals cooked, cabinets wiped, behinds of husbands and children swatted. They are fabric reminders of handed down love.
So much of today’s society is disposable. We rarely make things that last anymore. But the warp and woof of old linens and the memories and stories they hold make them even more precious to me in our transient world.
However, those two bath towels likely won’t make the cut after I’m gone. Saner minds than mine will hustle them off to the rubbish bin. Mama’s towels? Those rose-colored beauties have YEARS of life left in them yet at 62 – and beyond.
At 62 