When I was a little girl, my mother, who had grown up close
to poverty and never forgot it, used to save old packages--envelopes, boxes,
mailers. And, she reused them. Those days are gone, and for very good reasons.
I speak from experience.
My least favorite package comes from the clothing company that
sends a cotton shirt in a plastic bag inside a package whose interior sides are
covered in sticky film treated so that it doesn't respond to the plastic bag.
This would be fine except the entire parcel has to be torn open to get at the
shirt inside, and there's no way to use the packaging to return said item in
case it doesn't fit. And, of course, it doesn't fit.
Next comes the paper book package with the bubble-wrap
lining. I dislike this one because I can't recycle it after I manage to tear it
open. But this is still better than the spongy parcel stuffed with shredded
paper, which spills all over the porch before I even get it inside the house
and then leaves a trail to the kitchen. The parcel barely survived an unknown encounter
and is bleeding all over the kitchen table. But it is fully recyclable.
Next up is the cardboard book package for a single book.
This sounds ideal--hard to damage in transit, fully recyclable, reusable, solid
protective cover. But it requires a wrestler to get it open. This I manage
because I make bread the old fashioned way, with lots of kneading, so I have
muscles still, and I use them on this package. The book arrives undamaged, not
counting the flight across the kitchen and crash into the wall as it springs
loose from its cardboard prison.
Of course, I appreciate the large cardboard boxes that
arrive with no more than three books inside and enough bubble wrap for forty
piled in on top, leaving the books free to slide around over thousands of miles
until arriving on my porch. As a frugal New Englander, I waste several minutes
trying to decide if I should save the bubble wrap for later use. I do not save
it because it takes up too much room. My horror of clutter beats out my
distaste of waste.
Least expected is the large manila envelope designed to hold
up to ten pages of typed paper stuffed with at least two books. The four-inch
tear in one side holds long enough for the parcel to make it to my front porch,
where the postman slides it to the edge. I'm grateful it's not raining.
Mixed in among all these parcels arriving in various states
of disintegration or protected against the most determined opener, I receive a
large white envelope with a glassine window. Inside is a catalog for a company
selling trinkets from whom I've never purchased a thing. The back page is torn
and dirty, with a large boot print across it. Safely tucked into the envelope, the catalog arrives in my mailbox with a note of apology from the post office.
I hardly know what to make of this reverence for a store
catalog as I sweep up the stuffing from yet another damaged parcel. After some
thought, I wonder if the man at the post office is related to my mother.
Probably not. But perhaps he's a New Englander? Yes, for sure.
