We Will Eat the Fruit

We grew up knowing the simple arithmetic of scarcity. - Barbara Kingsolver in "Animal Dreams."

Day 203. The temperature is below 80 and the north wind is a-blowin! I am unduly and disproportionately elated. All that ails me has been healed!

I planned to write about my bike ride this evening, but upon typing the quote I discovered in Barbara Kingsolver's novel last night, a flood of blog-worthy memories washed over me. The "we" in the quote is referencing two sisters who are the main characters in the story. When I read the quote, I thought about me and my brothers.

We grew up in a caricature of the middle class home. The middle of the middle. The mean, median and mode of middle America was probably derived from our family statistics. The five of us lived in a three-bedroom, two-story house in the middle of Oklahoma City. It had around 1,500 square feet. Detached garage at the back of a single driveway. Dishwasher we rolled back and forth to the sink after dinner. A wood-paneled den measuring ten by twelve in which the five of us, layered upon one another to allow room for dad to stretch out in his recliner (within easy reach of his scotch), watched Bonanza and Bewitch and Andy Griffith and the first steps upon the moon. A half bath downstairs, and one full bath - negotiated by the five of us - upstairs. Window units for air conditioning and two floor furnaces downstairs for heating. Ancient, miniature natural gas "stoves" in the bedrooms upstairs. If memory serves, these were never lit for fear of explosions and inhalation of toxic fumes. Probably a good call on the part of our parents.

Mom and dad were born just this side of the Great Depression (I am referring to a significant era in U.S. history, not a condition that can be eliminated through Prozac). They were alive during the very years Steinbeck plunked down the Joads in Dust Bowl Oklahoma and challenged them to survive. Their formative years overlapped with World War II; to this day neither of them can throw away foil, twist ties, string, rubber bands, or nylon hosiery. Like many members of their generation, the combination of these two historical events indelibly influenced my parents. They have lived the simple arithmetic of scarcity.

With the AAA travel book fervently clutched in one hand and ardent frugality clutched in the other, my mother planned remarkable family vacations each summer. One of my most salient vacation memories occurred at the state line between California and Arizona. We had purchased fruit in Arizona to go with the wax-paper wrapped peanut butter sandwiches my mom prepared on top of the hotel dresser each morning before we hit the road in a station wagon eerily similar to the one the Brady Bunch drove to the Grand Canyon. Middle class vacation budgets in the 1960's did not include eating out. Then, as now, California had its own unique laws and regulations, which in the mid-60's included prohibition against transporting fruit from other states across the state line. Something about introducing fruit flies to their golden landscape.

On this particular family vacation, there were actually border patrol officers inspecting cars entering California along Interstate 40. They politely asked my mother if we were transporting fruit, and she, with equal politeness, replied, "Yes, we are." The border patrol informed her that the fruit must be confiscated: California Law. Without a moment's hesitation, my mom said firmly, "No, you can't confiscate our fruit. We'll just eat it." As me and my brothers looked on with growing horror, my dad pulled the car to the side of the highway, where we were instructed to devour the contraband. We were mortified, but had learned long ago it was never prudent to challenge my father with something as insignificant as our feelings and the accompanying trauma infiltrating our psyches. We ate the fruit. Peaches, plums and apples. Pretty sure that regularity was not an issue in the family for the remainder of the trip.

The simple arithmetic of scarcity. We did not waste. Not because it was environmentally correct,but because it was necessary to survive. My mom fed a family of five on $35 every two weeks. Splurging consisted of the occasional bag of Oreos and club crackers (in lieu of saltines) that my father brought home once a month or so. If my brothers and I didn't reach into the refrigerator and extract what we wanted within 3.25 seconds, my father shouted (from any remote location in the house - how did he do that?), "Close the refrigerator door! You're letting the cold air out!" Same thing with showers that lasted more than four minutes: "Get out of the shower! You'll use all the hot water!"

The window units were turned off at 10:17 p.m. in the summer - just after the weather man reminded my parents that the low for the night was going to be 88 degrees. My brothers and I, sent upstairs at 9:00 on weeknights, would lie together in my bed (the windows faced south and were therefore most likely to produce a faint breath of breeze), sweltering in anticipation of that magic moment when my parents would trek up the stairs and - Presto! Flick the switch on the attic fan. Salvation. In my acoustic memory, I can still hear the glorious sound of that switch being flipped; my body recalls the sagging relief triggered by the first intake of outside air, as if the whole second story had hiccuped. Strange now to think that muggy, humid, August air sucked through screen windows by a gigantic fan housed in the attic was a luxury. The simple arithmetic of scarcity. Moving air, even if it felt blasted from a furnace, was better than no air at all.

I have no recollection of feeling deprived in my girlhood. That was our life. We took short showers, hastily shut the refrigerator door, and laid perfectly still at night while hot summer air waffled across our sticky bodies. We savored a couple of Oreos like exotic pastry. My brothers and I were perfectly primed to go Green when it became vogue in the past few years. Without knowing it, we'd been Green our entire childhoods. And there weren't even tax credits then.

History cycles. Scarcity is a distinct reality. Our culture has grown lax and complacent during prolonged years of excess. This has created fertile ground for ego to flourish. Surviving scarcity requires dropping your ego at the California state line. When there is precious little, the arithmetic is simple, because the numbers are small. Do the math. By my calculations, you'll arrive at some surprising totals. When we shed our egos, there is plenty to go around.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc