The Quiet Rebellion Against Disposable Culture
Every dollar spent is a vote for the world you wish to create.
I sense a cultural shift happening—people setting aside their phones to spend afternoons in thrift shops, embracing cotton fabrics, and rescuing their parents' old sweaters from forgotten storage units.
The ultimate childhood joy: an L.L.Bean sweater, well-worn 100% cotton plaid shorts, weathered Bluchers, greying white frayed rope friendship bracelets filled with pool water, lake-damp hair, a reliable Casio digital watch, towel tucked under the seat, station wagon tailgate open.
Even in middle age, I can perfectly recall that sensation: sun-warmed skin at day's end by the lake, damp towel wrapped twice around my waist, rope bracelet slightly tight on my wrist, hair drying in thick, tangled locks. The delicious contrast between warm skin and a chilled, post-swim body. Knowing that soon I'd be eating a burger, maybe following it with a shake, then falling asleep without a single worry.
It's more than just nostalgia for carefree youth—it's about the tangible difference in materials. The crisp linen skirt, leather Topsiders worn smooth at the heel and pushed down flat from slipping on and never tucking in your heel - why bother? It’s summer.
We're moving away from the hollow dopamine hit of toxic Amazon unboxings toward something more substantial. Young people are rediscovering quality, seeking out pieces with history and durability. I find myself genuinely excited about this shift.
There are more and more retailers paying this mind in the right ways - check out Wooden Sleepers x L.L. Bean sale. I love the way Wooden Sleepers presents the merch, but I prefer to hunt on my own.
I am an eBay forever girl (I once worked there) and I love the hunt. Look at this beauty - and it’s made in U.S.:
When I was about three, my parents joined a hunting and fishing club in Pike county, Pa, called Blooming Grove. My father did not hunt but we did fly fish a lot. I can remember the first time I cleaned a trout - vividly - at Footbridge station with its dark wooded curves to the stream. My sister an I spent afternoons squishing up bread into cubes and fishing for sunnies at the lake. Saturday it was either the dinner at the club, or on the stream. I can still smell the cedar wood sunroom in our cottage where we watched slide shows of trips of friends on summer nights. I learned to ride my bike there with my father running alongside - core memories were locked in at Blooming Grove.
I learned to drive our dark green Volvo wagon there (stick!). My sister and I developed traditions entirely on our own during walks - the little rock at the bend to the lake which had ‘chipmunk staircases’. Blooming Grove is where I watched Valley Girl on rainy days with friends because it was the only videotape we had.
We played bumper pool in the kids’ room at the club while the adults had cocktail hour before dinner. When we were teens we stole cigarettes and 40 year old scotch from the lockers of the men’s lounge (oops). We would run to the lake to swim at night, and the water was warmer than during the day in its own magical way under the moon.
Every night we would come home from the club at 10pm and walk the 100 yards to our cottage, my father would try to scare us in the trees with scary growling sounds. We would walk with him to the tennis courts and lie down to look up at the skies and talk about the stars. I had a blue Swatch watch with sailing flags when I turned 13 and I loved it. All of these memories have core items that tag along with them.
This is where I learned about true outdoor style - in this world of recreation in the woods of Pennsylvania, it wasn’t about trend or polish, it was about ease.
A bold cotton tablecloth, linen napkins in a totally different color but also bold - heavy silverware, enamel plates, real glasses or metal cups. The bar was an entirely different set up by the stone grill. They would sometimes leave a station wagon open in the back for that as well. Tailgate bar with a Coleman cooler packed with ice and glasses. The basic offerings of white wine and martinis. A few pilsners mixed into the ice for dinner. A wood fire going and salad prepped in wooden bowls. There were always paper cocktail napkins with names like Witt’s End on them in cursive.
These objects — that blue Swatch watch with sailing flags, the dark green Volvo with its difficult clutch — they weren't just things we owned, but vessels that carried our stories, preserving moments that would otherwise dissolve into time. Items matter. What you spend money on, to wear, matters.
Every dollar spent is a vote for the world you wish to create.
K.